


In Light of Things We Cannot See

by teasdays (Yesitstyles)



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Curses, Djinni & Genies, HxHBB17, Identity Issues, Implied/Referenced Character Death, It's all here folks!, Kisses, M/M, Magic! Monsters! Mystery!, Noblemen, Princesses, Slow Burn, Urban Fantasy, i guess, too many characters lmao
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-11-07 21:53:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 27,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11067870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yesitstyles/pseuds/teasdays
Summary: Killua’s shoulder prickles as the presence there seems to shift. He breathes out.“Gon is exactly who I think he is. And he’s disappeared at the same time as-” Killua’s eyes dart from Illumi to the window, and he nearly glances to his desk, where the gold box rests. “At the same time as I released a jinni. I think you’re drawing the wrong conclusions.”“Never trust the occult,” Illumi tells him. Killua knows he's right; his sister’s headstone is reminder enough.But Killua has grown up with a sixth sense – the unusual ability to feel magic around him, traces of it on magic users, or the concentrated crackle of spirits made up of magic itself. And so Killua knows that the boy he met at boarding school is a far cry from the jinni that wears Gon’s face. But Gon is missing, and it’s Killua’s fault – he’s the one, after all, who released the jinni in the first place.





	1. seven iron rings

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! This fic is a real mashup of folklore from around the world, with an emphasis on arabesque mythology. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing! Many, many thanks to the organisers of this big bang: [shalnarkonice](https://shalnarkonice.tumblr.com/) and [gonfreacss](http://gonfreacss.tumblr.com/), and to everyone who wrote in this! It's been such a blast :) Thank you so much to both of my artists, [witches-nighttime](http://witches-nighttime.tumblr.com/) and [peppermint-soup](https://peppermint-soup.tumblr.com/) as well, I'm so blessed to have gotten their artwork! (check out the end notes!)  
> And finally, huge thanks to my absolute hero of a beta, [Scott](https://wasp-that-never-misses.tumblr.com/). This fic would not exist without him. 
> 
> This fic is set our our earth, and I've set Zoldyck Manor on the border between Georgia and Russia. Mount Kazbek is a dormant volcano in the Kokh Range (which I figure sounds as close as I can get to a real-life "Kuku-roo"). It's part of the larger Caucasus mountain system which stretches between the Black and the Caspian Seas. 

The third Tuesday after Killua begins school, he finds himself standing again in the wide entry of his family home with his suitcase trailing shamefully behind him. He’s got grass stains on his knees, and someone back at school who’s called him a friend — more than once, even — but none of that matters now that he’s here again.

His mother is a force of nature before him, a flurry of layered skirts and agitated tulle. She knows about the grass stains and the attempt he’s made at friendship. At least she doesn’t know about the beaten-up gold box buried in Killua’s pocket; the rest is bad enough.all

“But _oh_ ,” Killua’s mother continues, “you _insisted_. I warned you. I told you that school just wasn’t for you. It isn’t for _us_ — don’t frown like that, Killua, but the Zoldycks–”

Killua isn’t frowning. He keeps his expression carefully flat. He’s good at that, even when his shoulders feel heavy and his chest aches with disappointment.

“I know you hoped to make friends, but I told you — Illumi told you, didn’t he? — you have us, that’s all you need. And here you are, as we all said, no friends, _expelled–_ ”

Killua tightens his fists, shoved deep into his pockets. The sharp corners of the tiny gold box bite into his palm.

“–I can only hope you’re happy with yourself. The embarrassment you’ve brought on us! You owe your _life_ to your brother,” his mother rants, and her hands flutter delicately as though they’ve never done anything like crush a man’s windpipe. “I hope you can appreciate — if it weren’t for him, your accident might have–”

As usual, Killua’s mother is absolutely overreacting. The explosion that Killua had accidentally set off in a classroom on his second weekend away hadn’t been large enough to kill anyone, just large enough to cause a stir. It had been more than enough to send him home, but the physical explosion itself had been harmless enough, and the _cause_ of that explosion is (as of yet) unknown to his mother.

“–you could have _died_ , could have been _blown up_!” Killua’s mother persists, though Killua has mostly tuned out. He doesn’t think she’s taken a breath in five minutes or more. “–and can you imagine _Kalluto_ , you know he loves you–”

When Killua glances past his mother, he sees his father looking on from a few paces back, looking sort of amused. Maybe. It’s hard to tell, with him. He doesn’t seem worried, at least, as his wife begins to describe what a tragedy the funeral would have been — “your coffin would have been so _small_ –”

Overreacting.

The gold box is slightly dented under Killua’s ring finger. The metal feels almost hot in his hand. It’s for no other reason than absorbed body heat, but he imagines it to be lingering residue from the explosion.

It’s an unsettling thought. He shifts his grip again and wonders what the box might still be holding.

“Kikyo,” says Killua’s father smoothly, and the tirade comes to an abrupt end. Kikyo goes still. “I think he’s learned his lesson.”

He gives Killua a significant look, and Killua nods firmly.

“There.” (Kikyo’s pursed lips sour further.) “You will be… grounded,” Killua's father says, slowly, like he’s testing the word out. “For the foreseeable future.”

This punishment is a new step in a series of attempts to, apparently, integrate more normal parenting customs into the Zoldyck household, a project which had started around the time that Killua had begun to pester his parents to let him go to school. Killua offers another sombre nod. “I understand.”

“Good.” His father waves a hand: Killua is dismissed.

Killua nods again, fingers tightening around the singed and dented gold box hidden in his pocket, and skirts past his glowering mother towards the stairs. He’s unspeakably grateful for the escape.

He’d like nothing better than to hole up in his bedroom and be alone for a while. There’s no one in the Zoldyck manor, at least, that he wants to see right now.

“–Killua,” she calls as he sets foot on the first step, and he freezes. The box in his pocket burns hot, but there’s no way she knows it’s there. She wouldn’t know what it was, anyways. He turns back and schools his expression.

“...Please don’t try that again.”

Killua stares at her for a moment. He’s not sure if she means his short-lived stint at school or his piteously vain attempt at making friends. Maybe both.

“Right. Sure,” he says anyways, and then he makes his escape. He wants to lick his wounds in peace.

 

It’s always odd to come home after an extended absence. He’s been away for family trips before, and he always comes back to crisp sheets and a clean room. It’s slightly unsettling. Anything more than a vacuum and a change of bedding feels like an intrusion.

But as usual, the bed is made up neatly; the shelves have been straightened and the desk is clear. The only thing still on it is the long iron chain from Illumi — Killua had forgotten to bring it with him to school.

He picks it up now and looks down at it thoughtfully.

After a moment, he pulls out of his pocket the little gold box. It stirs some of the frustration simmering inside him, because if he hadn’t found this box, he’d still be in school. He’d probably be in class, trying to focus while Gon fidgeted beside him, or passing surreptitious notes under the desk.

It takes a bit of fiddling, because the iron clasp is chunky and awkward, but once that’s through the small loop on the lid, the box slides easily down the chain. When he drops the necklace under his shirt, even the top of the chain is hidden by his turtleneck.

The box seems to buzz faintly against his skin, more residue from the reaction. That residue is the reason Killua kept it.

He tugs his collar back into place just as he hears a soft knock at the door. On the other side, he can feel a prickle of something not dissimilar to the charge he gets from the box, though the one outside his door is much more familiar to him.

“Come in,” he says, throwing himself onto the bed, which smells irritatingly like home. Killua dislikes the sense of attachment he feels for this place.

The door opens slowly, and closes again. Killua stares at the ceiling and waits for Illumi to say something.

“I have decided not to tell them about what caused the... explosion. They might have guessed.”

Killua closes his eyes. “They haven’t.” He’s probably meant to feel grateful. It doesn’t really matter. Even if Illumi’s spared their parents the details of what happened, it doesn’t change enough. Killua’s still here.

“You should have been more careful.”

Killua doesn’t move.

“As I told you, jinn are dangerous. The preternatural is dangerous.”

The buzz of magic on Illumi betrays him. Killua’s never mentioned it, and Illumi has never explained it. Illumi knows better than to mess with those practices, so the origin of the magic on him is a mystery to Killua. “ _We’re_ dangerous,” he tells Illumi, because the Zoldycks are literally a family of assassins. “Why–” he starts, and then stops. He’s not sure he wants to hear Illumi’s lie. “Gon is not _preternatural_. There was _one tiny accident at school_ –”

Illumi’s sigh cuts him off. It’s a very expressive sigh, for all that it comes from Illumi. “One significantly dangerous incident, which released a very dangerous kind of spirit. It would have had you believe it was your friend.”

Killua frowns so his face won’t do anything more drastic. “I know better than to trust a thing like that,” he tells the ceiling.

“Do you?”

“Of course.”

The box is still warm on his chest, still emitting the quiet hum of things _other_.

“So you never wanted Gon to be your friend?” he asks, and Killua freezes. “You knew, all along, what Gon was, you weren’t fooled by his friendliness? I watched you, Killua. I saw you both together.”

A surge of irritation strikes Killua.

“That was supposed to be _my chance_ ,” he bursts, like a child, “and you couldn’t even let me have that for _two weeks_.” He draws in a breath, stomach churning. “How?” he demands, after a beat.

Illumi doesn’t ask what he means. “I have my ways,” he says, and Killua scowls before he can stop himself. He grits his teeth until they hurt. _I know_ , he wants to say, conscious of the magic that radiates off Illumi.

It sets Killua on edge, and Illumi’s voice is starting to grate as he asks, “Did you not want to befriend Gon?”

“Gon’s not the thing you saw.”

“He was,” Illumi says in that frustratingly calm tone he uses whenever he thinks he’s got the upper hand. Killua waits, but Illumi doesn’t go on.

“He is not,” Killua repeats, finally daring a glance towards his brother. Illumi’s dull eyes are fixed on him. “I don’t know what I let out, but Gon had nothing to do with it.”

Illumi seems to consider him. “You think you know this. Because you can sense these things? It’s sometimes impossible to detect — it’s not uncommon that magic might be hidden or suppressed.”

For the first time, Killua wonders if Illumi knows that he carries traces of magic on him. If it can be hidden, why has Illumi never bothered?

“Gon isn’t a spirit,” he insists stubbornly. The box prickles against his chest. “He’s human, and I trust him.”

The occult can’t be trusted. Killua knows this, as surely as he knows that he could trust Gon with his life. Gon is human.

There’s a long silence, before finally Illumi says, “Gon is missing from the school.”

“What?” Killua pushes himself upright. “What do you mean, he’s missing?”

“He’s not accounted for. The school cannot find him.”

Killua bites the inside of his cheek and stares at Illumi, tries to banish the coil of guilt that settles in his stomach. “That doesn’t mean anything. He’ll turn up.”

He’s pretty sure of that. It’s not surprising that Gon would run off occasionally, he doesn’t find school the novelty Killua enjoyed it as. “I can’t _prove_ he’s human,” Killua says at Illumi’s persistent stare.

“Nor can anyone else confirm it.”

Just the _thought_ that Gon might be something other than human makes Killua feel vaguely sick. Nauseous, the same way he feels when he thinks about how badly he messed up at school, or the fact that he’ll probably never get to meet Gon again.

He knows better than Illumi, though. “I swear, Illu-nii, if you don’t stop questioning senses you don’t have–”

His brother remains unswayed. “Never trust the occult,” Illumi tells him, a familiar refrain. “Your own senses can’t see through it.”

“I _know_.”

“Never forget it.” Illumi continues to stare, and then his eyes seem to soften without his expression changing at all, and he says, “I’m glad to see you home.”

Killua says nothing.  Illumi is quiet for a long moment, and then he produces from his pocket an iron ring: “from mother,” he tells Killua. So maybe Kikyo _has_ made a guess at what happened at the school.

Placing the ring on the desk, Illumi leaves. He pulls the door mostly shut behind him, leaving just a crack open to the hall. After a moment, Killua pushes off the bed with an irritated sigh and crosses the room to close it the rest of the way. He turns back, feeling suddenly drained. His head is beginning to ache.

Killua pauses by the desk and looks down at the ring Illumi left. He picks it up, turns it over — it seems pretty standard. The iron ring is thin, weighted, nothing remarkable, and he slides it on reluctantly, knowing he’ll be better off if he goes along with this. He’s in enough trouble as is.

* * *

 

Killua  wakes up on his first morning back home to the dim light of early dawn and one of the butlers bustling quietly around in his bedroom. He presses his face more firmly into his pillow, which is soft and clean and still smells like home. The pillows at school were too thin and didn’t smell like anything, but he feels a pang of longing for them anyway.

He hears the strike of a match, and then the scent of smoke and sage drift over the bed and when he pulls the blanket over his head it becomes harder to breathe, so he resigns himself to the earthy smell and the quiet murmuring, the _shu-shush_ of dry herbs. He can’t remember the last time he woke up to this.

His parents have definitely drawn their own conclusions about the incident at school. That, or Illumi's told them something after all.

Eventually, when the smell of burning sage has faded a bit, and the sunlight cuts through the curtains to permeate the room, he slides out of bed. He pads in his stockinged feet across the floor of his bedroom, but he pauses by the door — there’s a new iron ring on his desk, in the same place he’d found the first one. He makes a face, but slides it onto his middle finger anyways, next to the one already on his ring finger. They’re both perfectly fitted.

It’s strange to be back. It’s only been two weeks, but somehow it’s still surprising to Killua that nothing has changed. It’s the small differences that unsettle him — new flowers in the hall, the heavy smell of sage in the air. Kalluto has started eating a new brand of cereal.

“No more rice krispies?” Killua asks upon finding Kalluto in the kitchen, pouring himself a bowl of something consisting of cheerfully clashing colours.

Kalluto shakes his head. “You’ve been gone too long.” A few pieces of cereal escape the bowl. Killua reaches over quickly and snags them: their shapes are ambiguous, but they’re not bad.

Kalluto slides the box over, and Killua digs his hand in for a fistful.

“Use a bowl,” Kalluto scolds. Killua holds eye contact as he reaches up and shoves half his handful into his mouth.

It’s a lot, and Kalluto wrinkles his nose. “Mom hates that."

Killua reaches for another handful without looking away.

Deliberately, Kalluto blinks. “I’m not playing another staring contest with you.”

“That’s fine,” Killua tells him through a mouthful of sugar cereal.

Kalluto frowns momentarily, then reaches across the table himself to scoop out a handful. Killua feels a rush of satisfaction.

“No one will tell me why you got kicked out of school," Kalluto starts, drawing his hand out of the box.

The dry cereal feels rough in Killua’s throat as he swallows. “I killed another student.”

He’s rewarded with a suspicious look. “No, you didn’t,” Kalluto says, but he doesn’t sound confident.

Killua lets the moment drag on a bit, and then he rolls his eyes. “Of course not. I could’ve, though,” he lies, to add drama. “I caused an accident.”

“What? How,” Kalluto asks, sitting forward.

That’s a question which Killua’s not sure how to answer. It’s a bit of a mystery, in fact, to all involved. “Top secret. Can’t tell you,” he says instead.

“Ugh, Killua,” Kalluto groans. “It can’t really be a big secret, or anything. I know Illu-nii knows.”

That gives Killua pause. He wonders for the first time if Illumi might actually know more about what happened than Killua himself — the details of _why_ and _how_ the explosion went off are all a bit unclear to him.

“It’s between me and him,” Killua settles for saying.

“Oh…” Kalluto gives him a measuring look. It’s a look that probably means nothing good, and he confirms that suspicion by saying, “you’ve not told mom or dad.”

“Why would I?” Killua shrugs it off. “They know I got expelled. That’s all they need to know.”

“I guess…”

Kalluto still doesn’t look convinced, but he lets it go, and Killua is relieved. It’s awkward having to lie to family members. Especially in a big family like this, where it becomes hard to keep track of who’s privy to what information.

“And why the sage?” Kalluto asks.

“Another one of mom’s kicks, I guess.” Killua finally stands and reaches into the cupboard, searching for a bowl. “It’ll stop soon, like it always does.”

“It isn’t a kick. You’re wearing her iron rings.”

“I guess she’s made some assumptions, about what happened at school.” Cereal patters into the bowl, and he lets it pile up too high before righting the box. “This is way better than rice krispies.”

Kalluto wrinkles his nose. “Don’t finish it. Is she right?”

Killua sticks out his tongue as he pours the milk. “She’s just guessing.”

He picks up his bowl and spoon, and Kalluto watches him but doesn’t ask anything else, so Killua leaves.

 

He intends to find somewhere quiet where he can eat his breakfast in peace, because he’s been gone for three weeks but he’s still sick of dealing with his family. Unfortunately, despite the size of the manor, all of its inhabitants tend to stick to the first two floors of the west wing, which makes it harder to avoid everyone. And usually, Milluki would be holed up in his bedroom on the third floor, as far as possible from the rest of them, but naturally he chooses this morning to venture outside.

He must be out of food, Killua thinks, as he stops in the hallway facing his brother. They eye each other, both in their pyjamas, Killua with his bowl of cereal and Milluki with a phone in his hand and a worrying glint in his eye.

“I heard you tried to make a friend,” Milluki says. He shares Illumi’s complexion, but not his demeanor — amusement cuts through his tone, sets his mouth at a mean angle. “But Mama says it didn’t work out. Did you learn your lesson?”

The wary distance he maintains between them betrays his attitude — much as he’d like to say nasty things, Milluki doesn’t have the guts to push too hard.

Killua, on the other hand, doesn’t care if he’s on thin ice with their mother. He shifts his weight, just to watch Milluki’s eyes narrow on his stance. “Sure, I learnt a lot. The lesson plans there were pretty different from here, though,” he muses. “I’ve probably fallen behind on my training. Wanna spar? We can find out.”

Milluki clicks his tongue derisively. “You’re the prodigy, hmm, we know. Your talents know no bounds.” He doesn’t quite roll his eyes. “You’re still a liability. Zoldycks don’t make friends.”

It’s one of the primary rules in the Zoldyck household. Killua knows this all too well, and he can’t help his mouth from twisting at the reminder.

He knows their mother is immensely pleased that his ambitions failed, else he’d be suffering a lot more right now. Their father had eventually relented to Killua’s needling to be sent away, but Kikyo had never approved. She’d probably have rigged something herself, if Killua hadn’t gotten himself expelled first.

It’s tempting to bite back that Milluki couldn’t make a single friend, even if he wanted. It’s the kind of schoolyard taunt one of the boys might’ve thrown around at school, only Killua knows that Milluki wouldn’t care. Instead, he mutters, “It’s a wonder we’re all so maladjusted.”

More loudly, he says, “You’re right, Milluki. Hentai is much better for building character.” And then, tired of family in general and Milluki in particular, he takes advantage of his particular talents to abscond.

* * *

Being grounded, in the Zoldyck household, turns out to mean no electronics. No internet, no television, no games. Killua's never been hooked on that stuff like Milluki is, and had held firm against his classmate’s pressures to engage more with social media, but it’s still a pain. Even worse is the fact that he's been forbidden from leaving the manor, too, and he’s surprised at how strange it feels to be isolated here again after only two weeks away.

The days following his expulsion are, unsurprisingly, very boring.

Gon made things interesting. Killua tries to remember what he used to do, before he'd left for school, and comes up blank.

At least he’s not very worried by what Illumi told him, about Gon. Or rather, he’s always worried by things Illumi tells him, so this is par for the course. He has no real way of knowing if Gon’s accounted for yet without access to any social media, which is a drag, but it’s not particularly worth stressing over. Gon can take care of himself.

Killua, on the other hand, is already going stir-crazy by the second morning.

“Hey, Kalluto.” Killua wanders further into the sitting room to lean against the back of the couch. “What’re you watching?”

“Sailor Moon.” Kalluto, curled up on the end of the couch, glances at Killua with a frown. “Did you not recognize it?”

“It sounds familiar.” It’s Japanese, and looks like something Milluki might watch. Killua’s always made a point of avoiding any shows like that.

“You aren’t allowed to be watching TV,”Kalluto reminds him as he comes around the end of the couch and drops onto the cushion.

“No one’s stopping me.” Someone will probably come in a minute if he’s really not allowed to be here. “They didn’t ban me from being in this room.”

Kalluto shrugs disinterestedly and goes back to watching his show.

No one does come to tell him off for being here, which Killua is only moderately surprised by. He’s definitely under careful observation by the staff, if not by his mother herself, but something he can pass off as family bonding might allow him some leeway. Or maybe Sailor Moon is more harmless than whatever his mother expects him to get up to on his own. She’s always encouraging them to practice their Japanese, anyways.

Either way, they watch a handful of episodes without interruption. Kalluto has it on netflix, so it just keeps going, and Killua keeps watching. The talking cats are a little strange.

It’s during one of the thirty-second intervals between shows that Kalluto glances over and says, “You’re wearing another ring.”

Killua resists the urge to flex his fingers. “It was on my desk.” This is the third one he’s been given, which is almost certainly overkill, but he’s under heavy watch right now. They’re thin and not too cumbersome. Most of the time, he can forget he’s wearing them. A relatively small price to pay for a bit of peace.

When the opening theme kicks in, Kalluto speaks up again. “There’s been something disturbing the grounds, have you heard?”

The prickle of the box against Killua’s chest seems to expand; for a moment, he imagines an echo of the same magic hovering outside. He shakes it off. “What, like an animal?”

Kalluto makes a neutral noise. “I don’t know. The butlers don’t like it. Do you think it’s something to do with the sage?”

Oh, of course — Kalluto is digging for more details. Killua nearly rolls his eyes. “Probably not.”

He should have expected Kalluto to keep prying about what happened. But whatever their mother thinks, he’s pretty certain he didn’t bring anything back with him. “We’ve got a bunch of wild animals around. It’s probably raccoons, or foxes.” He turns and bares his teeth. “Maybe it’s a _yako_. Better keep your windows locked, don’t let the sage out. Maybe they were sent by dad’s rivals, trying to steal our secrets.” He’s teasing, but privately, he resolves to keep an eye on the yard. He hasn’t noticed anything so far, but he’ll be in for a world of trouble if his parents’ suspicions are confirmed.

Kicking out, Kalluto scowls. “Don’t yako live in fields?” He says, little know-it-all.

Killua sits back and puts his hands behind his head. “They live wherever they want. Maybe that’s why mom’s warding the house. Looks really bad if you let _two_ kids get possessed.”

This time, Kalluto’s heel connects painfully with his knee, and Killua swears and grabs Kalluto’s ankle, digging in his nails. “Don’t–”

“What the fuck,” Kalluto bites out. Killua doesn’t think he’s ever heard him swear before. “Don’t joke about that. _Jesus_.”

Killua lets go quickly, feeling like his chest is full of smoke. Kalluto snatches his leg back and curls up again, staring fixedly at the television. They’ve missed the beginning of the episode.

The topic doesn’t come up again, and Killua feels guiltily relieved.

* * *

Killua is sitting by the window in his room and trying to focus on his history book, because his family can take him out of school, but he won’t let that prevent him from learning. Homeschooling sessions have temporarily been suspended, giving him some time to adjust to being home, but the boredom is killing him.

He’s unfortunately not having much success with his readings, partly because he keeps half-expecting Gon to burst in and interrupt his rhythm. For two weeks, any time Killua had tried to study, Gon would be there — needling him with questions, trying to alleviate his own boredom.

Now that Killua’s been sent home, Gon must be bored to tears in class.

He’s able to absorb about a page and a half of post-war treaties in the 1920s before his mind starts to wander. When the door opens, his first instinctive thought is — _stupidly_ — that it must be Gon, and his head snaps up before he can catch himself.

He raises his eyebrows at Kalluto, standing by the door.

“Will you spar with me?”

“No,” Killua tells him shortly, and turns back to his book. And then, “Leave,” when Kalluto doesn’t immediately respond.

He tries again, vainly, to focus on his page, but his youngest sibling proves persistent.

“What do you want?” Killua asks finally, after several minutes of trying to read with Kalluto’s eyes fixed on him.

Kalluto lingers in the doorway, wordless, neither making a move to come in nor leaving. Finally — when Killua’s just about ready to snap at him — he wanders a few aimless paces into the room. “Do you have an extra phone charger?”

Killua suppresses a sigh. “No.” He looks determinedly back to his book, hoping to send a clear message.

Instead of leaving, Kalluto meanders over to the bookshelf, and Killua bristles. He can’t shake the awareness of his brother from his peripheral vision. Still, he keeps his gaze fixed on his page — the clash between Japan and the League of Nations. It was a more interesting history on youtube than it is on paper, in Killua’s opinion.

From the bookshelf, Kalluto asks,“Isn’t this mine?”

Killua sighs audibly this time. “I don’t care, take it.” After a pause, he glances up. “What is it?”

The book is blue, and Kalluto tilts the cover towards Killua so he can read the title, _The Amulet of Samarkand_ , in gold font. It doesn’t even ring any bells, and Killua grits his teeth. “Take it,” he says again, hoping that Kalluto will just _go away_.

No luck. Kalluto tucks the book under one arm and shuffles across the room to Killua’s chair. He peers over the arm of the chair, hair brushing the top of Killua’s head, and Killua sinks lower. “It’s school stuff,” he says, before Kalluto can ask.

“What kind of stuff?” he presses anyways.

“Nothing,” Killua says, and lets the book drop closed on his chest as he finally gives up. “History.”

Wriggling onto the arm of the chair, Kalluto makes himself comfortable against Killua’s shoulder.

They haven’t sat so close in a while. It throws Killua back, sense memory triggering thoughts of long sunny days on the lawn and cozy evenings spent curled up, the three of them, on the couch. This was probably before the physical lessons really picked up, but Killua remembers reading to them from his children’s chapter books, puzzling through simple kanji or Cyrillic.

Kalluto is much bigger now, and his hair tickles a bit, but Killua doesn’t push him off. “Gon never let me focus on studying either,” he says with mock irritation, trying to dispel the weird ache in his chest. Gon is a fresher wound, but that makes it easier in a lot of ways.

Kalluto hums. He’s warm and heavy against Killua, and his breath comes soft and loud like a child’s, even though he’s almost thirteen. Eventually, inevitably, he asks, “Where do you think he is?”

For a while, Killua doesn’t answer. Truthfully, he doesn’t know, but he’d rather not say that out loud again. Saying it to Illumi had been enough. “If he’s not at school?” Killua asks. “It’s been a few days. He’s probably back there. Or maybe with his dad,” he guesses, realising as he does that it might be true. “He talked about him a lot, he’s always travelling.”

“What for?”

“Gon’s dad is a super soldier,” Killua says, and gets a pointy pre-teen elbow to the ribs. “It’s true!” he insists, wiggling out of the way, but Kalluto doesn’t settle till they’re crammed uncomfortably side-by side in the armchair.

“He’s not a super soldier,” Kalluto says, pulling his narrow knees to his chest. His toes dig into Killua’s shin. “Why’s he travelling?”

“I said–”

“You didn’t make friends with the only other kid whose family’s as weird as ours,” Kalluto says plainly. “No way.”

So, sighing, Killua relents. “Okay, no, he’s an archeologist. He travels all over the world, and Gon doesn’t hear from him very often. He didn’t even know where Ging was when we were at school, but he’s always wanted to go travelling with him, so maybe that’s where he is.” He casts back, remembering lying in their beds after lights out, whispering across the gap in the room they shared.

Then he remembers the chemistry room, and for a second he can feel the phantom sense of magic at the window, an echo of the overpowering charge he’d felt in school.

He shivers.

But he’s not there anymore — he’s at home, in the heavily warded manor, and the faint prickle of magic he feels outside is nothing, just his imagination. The grounds are warded just as heavily as the house. Killua takes a deep breath, and it smells reassuringly like burnt sage and stale air.

The feeling dissipates as Killua remembers a detail from those late-night conversations with Gon. “He works in the UAE sometimes,” he says aloud. Kalluto makes an inquiring noise. “Dubai,” Killua elaborates. “Gon said there was a contact there.”

“I know where the UAE is,” Kalluto grumbles. “It’s a hotspot for jinn, isn’t it?”

For a heartbeat, Killua thinks that’s a pointed question, Kalluto is hinting that he knows something. “Is it true that there’s a fighting ring for spirits there?” Kalluto goes on, and then Killua relaxes.

The surplus of spirits had been the first thing he’d known about Dubai, too. Illumi had taught them. He’d stood them both under a big map of the world, pointing out specific places — _Cities_ , he’d told them, _are usually safe._ But there were a few exceptions.

“That’s what Gon's dad is there for,” Killua says. “Not the arena, but he works with jinn.” He remembers that detail vividly, remembers shuddering as Gon had told him. “I think because they’re so old, and they’ve got ties to the history and the artifacts around there.” _They know a lot_ , Gon had said, totally oblivious to Killua’s discomfort. As though working with spirits was normal and fine.

“Eugh.” Kalluto gives an exaggerated shudder, and Killua stifles a gratified smile against his shoulder.

* * *

 

The days drag on monotonously with Killua shut inside.

He puts on a new iron ring every day, courtesy of his mother. He watches more netflix with Kalluto and sometimes tells him stories about school and about Gon, he ignores Milluki’s taunting, and avoids Illumi altogether as much as possible.

But on the seventh day, Killua wakes up to a weight on his bed.

Killua sleeps lightly and comes awake easily when the situation calls for it, and he is conscious in the instant that his bed dips with an unfamiliar, humming presence.

There are six iron rings heavy on his fingers, and today he will receive a seventh. He carries an iron chain around his neck, and the tiny golden box on the end of it hums consistently against his chest with the same otherly charge as the thing seated at the foot of his bed. From there, Gon’s face frowns at him.

“Killua,” Gon breathes, and his face clears. Killua’s hand comes to grasp the gold box through his shirt, to feel against his palm the faint echo of what he feels across from him.

“Gon,” he says — it comes out without permission — and then, “ _you aren’t Gon_.”

The bedroom is cast in greyish, pre-dawn light. It’s quiet — no, the birds are beginning to sing. Killua can hear them through the open window. The air is cold through his pyjamas, the morning chill settling against his skin. The curtains shift, but apart from that, the room is completely still. Gon frowns again.

“Killua, it’s Gon. It _is_ me. It — it’s weird, I’ll have to explain, I will. Okay, Killua? I’m sorry. It took a while to get in here, I know, but I — you can leave. I can get you out. If that’s what you want.”

Killua doesn’t speak. He can’t reply, can’t even move. He can feel his heartbeat pounding in his head, and his fingers are clenched so tight around the box that his hand feels hot. Everything feels distant, though — the one sense that stands out in his mind is the heavy thrum emanating from the thing at the end of his bed.

“Killua?” Gon’s voice comes out low, his expression is the picture of concern. The jinni leans forward.

Killua jerks back as if he’s been dragged, so hard that his elbows hit the headboard behind him and his neck protests sharply at the strain.

In the same instant his bedroom door swings open, casting light across his carpet. The jinni turns quickly, and the light catches on his face, and _it looks like Gon_ , but Killua can feel by its energy that it’s _not —_ and in the next breath, he’s alone in the bed.

Gon — or the thing wearing his face — has vanished. Killua’s heart is still pounding, his head is ringing, and although the heavy presence of magic has lifted, he can still feel its phantom trace lingering on him.

A butler sweeps into the room following the opened door, and Killua rolls over quickly as he can and curls up facing the wall, trying to still his breathing. The butler seems oblivious to anything amiss, carrying on as usual. Killua hears the strike of a match, and then the smell of smoke and sage wash over him, and he manages a deep breath. The scent is soothing. He’s not sure if he’s imagining the way it seems to neutralize the air in the wake of his visitor, but he’s grateful for it either way.

There’s a soft gasp as the butler discovers the open window, and then the rustle of curtains, and the click of the lock sliding home is more soothing still. Killua focuses on the earthy smell and the familiar murmuring, and his heartbeat slows in time with the _shu-shush_ of dry herbs.

* * *

Throughout the morning, Killua is jumpy and unsettled.

He gets up early, not long after the butler has come through, because sitting in his own dark bedroom makes his skin crawl in anticipation of another nasty surprise. The goosebumps on his arms feel like static, like a current of magic twinging his senses, and he can’t shake the feeling of something still hovering just at the edge of his awareness. He drops the necklace on his desk as he leaves because the charge makes his skin crawl, and it’s not until he’s in the kitchen that he realizes he’d forgotten to put on the seventh iron ring.

He doesn’t bother to go back for it.

After breakfast he wanders into the living room, leaving on all the lights behind him. He’s not a child; what’s more, he’s an _assassin_ , and the dark poses no real obstacle to him. Still, there’s something inexplicably comforting about the bright lights, as if they alone could drive off the monsters.

Killua, a monster himself, knows better. He leaves the lights on anyways.

Eventually, Kalluto trudges in with a bowl of cereal in one hand, rubbing his eyes with the other. His usually straight hair is rumpled on one side and he doesn’t seem surprised to find his brother up so early, even though he's always been the earliest riser ~~after Alluka~~.

He doesn’t say anything as he drops onto his side of the couch and grabs the remote to turn on Netflix, and Killua doesn’t pay much attention as he puts on _Naruto_. It’s one of the the older episodes which Killua remembers watching as a kid, so he can sort of follow the plot anyways, even caught up in his thoughts.

Mostly, his thoughts keep drifting back to the jinni, the sizzle of magic surrounding Gon’s body and cutting through the early morning stillness. And still, the phantom presence of magic hovers at the edge of Killua’s perception, and he’s forced to question whether or not he really _has_ been imagining it, all this week.

Morning rolls into afternoon, and Kalluto doesn’t try to start up a conversation, so they sit in silence.

Gon must be in a classroom somewhere, Killua thinks. What period? Math, maybe. He pictures the dusty classroom with sunlight slanting in and Gon staring out the window. Or maybe he’s at home with his _Eimmat_ -Mito, safely returned to her. Or he might be somewhere else still, some unknowable part of the world, sitting in the dust of an archaeological dig and watching his dad work.

Sasuke and Naruto are in the middle of some argument — Killua’s lost the plot by this point; the show’s conflicts have blurred together in his memory — when Milluki comes in.

Milluki has watched all of Naruto three times, or so he says; some days, he might come sit with them if it was on. Today, he only pauses for a moment by the door, and then he focuses on Killua.

“Hey,” he says, shortly. Killua glances up and catches Milluki’s gaze, and his already unsettled mood sours.

“What is it?”

Milluki purses his lips. He might be pleased with Killua’s irritation, or displeased with his clipped tone — it’s hard to tell. “Your school’s been trying to get in touch with you. Father was on the phone with them earlier.”

That sets off alarm bells, and Killua sits up. He knows how to appear calm, but inside his stomach clenches. “How do you know?” His voice comes out controlled, disinterested.

“Illumi. He asked me to listen in for him. He didn’t want you to know,” Milluki adds, mouth curling.

Killua raises an eyebrow. “You did what he asked?”

“For a price,” says Milluki, which means he was offered some kind of rare anime figure, or something. Difficult to find, because money is no object. Not all that difficult, though, if Milluki is breaking half the promise to share with Killua.

Leaning back into the couch, Killua looks away. “So?”

On the screen, Naruto is crying. Killua has no idea what’s happening.

“I thought you might like to know. That your friend’s still missing, they want a statement or something.”

“It must be serious,” Kalluto finally pipes in, “if they’re daring to ask to speak with you.”

It’s true that the Zoldyck family are not renowned for their approachability. Killua still feels a stab of reproach towards Kalluto, for bringing it up.

“He’s been missing for over a week now,” says Milluki, as if it bears repeating. “Of course it’s serious. Are you worried about him?” he asks Killua. His tone almost borders on sympathetic, but he can’t hide the edge to it.

Gon is not in the classroom. Killua conjures again the mental image of his friend at some archeological dig, the dust, the indistinct figure of his father at work.

“Gon can take care of himself,” Killua says again, though the anxious guilt simmers up again. “You should worry about Illumi, not me,” he adds, just to see Milluki’s face redden.

When he speaks again, his voice comes out tight with annoyance. “Illumi agrees with me — friends are a distraction you don’t need. Things like this happen, and then you’re thrown off track. Have you trained at all this week?”

“You haven’t agreed to spar with me yet,” Killua deflects, because it has been a few days since he’s done anything but read or watch Netflix. If he doesn’t start to push himself, their grandfather will re-instate the training regimen, and Killua scowls at the thought. “Come on. You know I’m out of shape,” he tells Milluki, and sits up.

Milluki takes a predictable step back, sneering. He opens his mouth as if to say something more, but then Killua cocks his head and begins to stand, and Milluki scoffs and moves off.

Killua falls back against the couch, watching Milluki’s back in case he changes his mind. But he doesn’t, and then it’s just Kalluto and Killua on the couch.  _Naruto_ has rolled over to the credits.

The twenty second break between episodes is a dangerous time, Killua is learning.

“Think he’s found his dad?” Kalluto asks.

“Who knows,” Killua says, his tone flat enough that Kalluto doesn’t press.

 

But Milluki’s words weigh on him, and for the rest of the day, Killua feels unsettled. He can’t help but think back to the thing in his bedroom this morning, the thing that had looked like Gon. _I can get you out_ , it had said, like it remembered how Killua had said, back at school, how he hated to be forever trapped at home.

He knows the jinni wasn’t Gon, but he wonders if it’s related to Gon’s disappearance. The more he thinks about it, the harder it becomes to argue otherwise. The thought festers.

He can’t shake the worry that’s taken him, and in the back of his mind Illumi’s voice reminds him that _jinn are dangerous_.  He’s much too far away to feel the insistent but relatively faint buzz of magic emanating from the box he's left in his room. But he can feel the phantom energy of it, still, constantly aware that even if it’s not on him, it’s still _there_ , in the manor. Killua can’t stop thinking of it, of how it matches exactly the charge of the jinni.

He knows what the thing was in his room. He knows where it came from, and he knows that it has something to do with Gon’s disappearance.

He’s quiet all through dinner, trying not to flinch every time Illumi’s elbow gets too close. The magic on him is different, so it’s easier, but even that familiar charge sets Killua’s teeth on edge. He makes an effort to steel himself against it.

Every time his mother opens her mouth, he wonders if she’ll bring up the open window this morning. It’s possible that she hasn’t heard; the room was burned out, anyways, and it’s better for the butlers that she remain in the dark. Someone would be out of a job if she found out.

Killua wonders if he should say anything — but that would be a confession. _Keep the sage in, and everything else out_ , his mother used to say, when they were young and she’d been diligent about warding everything. Then they’d renovated the wards on the outer gates, and at some point, the morning rituals had ended.

Illumi never opens his mouth. He rarely speaks at dinner anyways, but Killua figures that if Illumi had known about the open window this morning, he’d have cornered Killua alone.

Killua eats in silence.

Immediately after dinner, he heads upstairs to his bedroom. He walks quickly and with purpose, and he tries not to think of how this is a terrible, terrible idea. He shuts his door firmly.

His schoolbag is still on the floor where he dropped it a week ago, empty. Killua grabs a few items of clothing at random from the dresser, tossing up a prayer that something won’t clash. Fishing through a few pants pockets, he digs up a small stack of cash — it’s not much, but it’ll have to do. He zips it all into his bag and tucks that out of sight between his desk and his bed, just in case.

He only gives himself a moment's pause, staring down at the bag and wondering if this is really the best idea. Then he shakes himself and strides across the room.

Killua comes to a stop at his window, which looks down the mountain and across the long expanse of greenery that is the Zoldyck estate. The Khokh Range rises around their volcano, a humble cluster of dusty blue mountains. It’s late in the day, and the sky is darkening rapidly along the horizon, casting the valley below in shadow. Killua steels himself, and unlocks the window.

It’s a warm evening. For the first time in a week, Killua feels fresh wind on his face. Instead of smoke and herbs, the air smells like plantlife and the outside and Killua breathes in deeply, tapping his fingers against the windowsill. The iron rings clack against the wooden frame. Wind drafts through the window slowly, and Killua throws it wide open to air out the sage, to let in the jinni who’s been hovering around outside all week.

Nothing happens immediately, of course. Killua sits down on his bed, and he waits.

He’s unsure what he’d been expecting of the jinni, but it’s somehow surprising to him that it takes on Gon’s form again. It’s an arrival that Killua has trouble accounting for: there’s nothing in the middle of his room, and then there is, without even a blink in between.

“Hey, Killua.” The voice isn’t quite the chirp that Gon favors, but the way his eyes crinkle up as he smiles is familiar. This time, at least, Killua is waiting for him, and he doesn’t miss a beat.

“Why are you still wearing that face?”

The beaming grin on Gon’s face falters as his brow furrows. “What else would I look like?”

Killua shrugs. “You can look like anything, right? Why Gon?”

The smile fades completely, and Gon’s expression turns uncomfortable. “I told you,” says the jinni, “I’m still Gon.” He looks sort of lost, apologetic, and harmless enough (for now, though Killua _knows_ he’s dangerous), so Killua ignores the flush of frustration that tries to rise up in him.

He shrugs, as if it doesn’t really matter to him either way. He walks to his dresser, where the iron necklace is laid out with its gold box.

Next he asks the really pressing question. “How did you get through the gates?”

He doesn’t look at the thing wearing Gon’s face as he speaks. It’s too confusing.

“Oh — I thought you knew, actually!” He — chirps, this time, and Killua’s gut twists at the tone as much as the words. Gon’s voice is a little bit sheepish as he says, “You’ve still got the seal I was in. It’s not sealed anymore, but I could still hide in it… I wasn’t sure it would work.”

The box stares up at him, and Killua’s fingers clench. “How did you get in last night?” He begins to straighten out the iron chain on the desk, for something to do.

“I jiggled the latch,” says the jinni, as though it could possibly have been that easy. “I could only get it open a crack. I had to wait all night for the room to air out! I wasn’t sure it would work but the wards weren’t done right, yesterday morning, or I wouldn’t’ve been able to get close," he explains.

He shouldn’t have been able to get in at all. Killua should have told Illumi about this, told his mother, told Gotoh. He definitely should never have opened the latch himself and let the jinni back inside. “And then you could just come in?” Killua asks, though of course he knows the answer already.

He’ll have to look into more effective warding systems. That thought makes him feel nearly as paranoid as his mother — but he has a jinni in his bedroom, so he thinks it’s justified.

“Mhm!” Killua makes the mistake of glancing up briefly in time to see Gon’s head nodding quickly. It’s unnerving how well the jinni resembles Gon.

Killua turns away to look out the window. With it finally open, the outside seems much closer than it used to. The end of the Zoldyck property is out of sight, and he wonders when his parents might allow him to leave. The answer is, inevitably, not soon enough.

He turns back to Gon’s face. “Alright,” he begins, offer already prepared, but he’s cut off by a knock at the door.

Before Killua can blink, Gon has vanished. Seemingly of its own volition, the window swings shut silently, and the air in the room becomes still and strangely stale, as if it’s been completely undisturbed all week.

He can feel the brush of magic at the back of his neck, though, a presence at his shoulder. He suppresses a shudder.

“Come in,” he calls. He recognises, again, the charged aura on the other side of the door.

Illumi enters quietly and for a minute does nothing but look at Killua, studying him, inscrutable as always. “Milluki has told me what happened earlier,” he says, and Killua raises his eyebrows, surprised that Milluki would confess. It probably wasn’t voluntary.

Illumi goes on, “You... are upset. Gon’s disappearance shouldn't concern you.” Killua frowns. “As we’ve realized, Gon is not who you thought he was.”

Killua’s shoulder prickles as the presence there seems to shift. He breathes out. “Gon is exactly who I think he is. He disappeared at the same time as–” Killua’s eyes dart from Illumi to the window, and he nearly glances to his desk, where the gold box rests. “At the same time as I released a jinni, but I think you’re drawing the wrong conclusions.”

“And where is he now?”

Killua scowls. “I don’t know.”

Illumi stares at him impassively for a long moment. Killua stares back just as intently, but he wonders if maybe Illumi does know something about the incident this morning.

“Never trust the occult,” Illumi tells him, finally.

The prickle at his shoulder feels somehow insistent, agitated. “I know.”

Illumi doesn’t say anything about the window, and he doesn’t press on about friendships, as Milluki and Kikyo had. He gives Killua one more piercing look, staring until Killua feels stripped, exposed. But then he exhales and turns away without a word.

Killua says nothing and Illumi softly exits the room. He pulls the door most of the way closed on his way out, leaving a sliver of open space that Killua stares at fixedly as though, by power of will alone, he can push it closed. _Use the force, Killua_. He narrows his eyes and stares harder, willing it to move.

The door closes with a quiet _click_ almost before Killua can register that Gon has reappeared beside it. He stands with his hand still on the door and stares at Killua with an odd expression.

“What?” Killua demands.

“...Your brother is sort of scary,” Gon says. And then, “You don’t believe me.”

Killua watches him. He doesn’t answer. Instead he asks, “What are you?”

Gon hesitates. “Illumi said it,” he hedges, staring fixedly at Killua. “And... you said it, too.” 

Killua waits. He knows the answer already, but he wants to hear the words from the thing using Gon’s mouth, wants the confirmation that this is not Gon standing in his room.

“Jinn,” Gon says finally. “But you already know that, don’t you, Killua? — Well, half-jinn,” he tacks on.

Killua considers that. “Half-jinn?” He’s never heard of that; he’s not sure if he should believe it. But he isn’t an expert on jinn. He doesn’t know much about the occult at all, just enough to stay away from it. And jinn are native to around the middle east, so Killua knows even less.

Gon nods emphatically. “Ging is jinn — the only thing I know about my mom is, I guess, that she must be human.” He seems earnest. He has no tells, as far as Killua can see. Nothing but the inescapable charge he carries, a physical aura of otherness.

Killua leans back against the wall and sighs. “If you’re Gon,” he tries, “then what was in the box? Before.”

He doesn’t miss the way that Gon’s eyes fall to the necklace laid out on the desk.

Not missing a beat, Gon says,“That was only, something like... the jinn part of me. The magic side.” Even as he says this he reaches out, almost unconsciously, and Killua watches carefully with his eyes fixed on the iron chain. Part of him — small and irrational — wants Gon to have no problem touching the iron.

And maybe the unnatural charge on him isn’t what Killua knows it is. Maybe he and Illumi are both wrong.

The jinni very suddenly lets out a shout — more of surprise than pain, really — as his hand meets iron, and he snatches it back quickly. The light in the room has gotten quite low, and Killua’s eyes caught the white sparks that lept where Gon's dark skin met the metal.

The jinni flexes Gon’s hand and frowns in consternation.

“You’re only half-jinn,” Killua repeats, and it’s not a question, but the jinni replies anyways.

“Well, with my jinn side, I can do some things better. And there are other things I can’t do anymore.” He shakes his hand briefly, recovering. “That part of me was divided off and locked up, until you let it out — Killua, thank you for doing that!” the jinni rewards him with a blinding smile, his tone painfully sincere, and Killua has to fight to keep his face from hardening.

“So,” he says, carefully, “you owe me for that. Is that right?”

Killua’s knowledge of jinn is limited, but far from nothing. He knows that the jinni is in his debt. And — much as he _knows_ that Illumi is right, he can never trust the occult (he shouldn’t even be humouring this thing, it’s literally inside his home, past barriers that it _should not have been able to cross_ ) — he cannot waste this.

The jinni makes a thoughtful noise. “Well, I guess so. I haven’t done this before either. So I guess you get a wish or two, or, you know. But first,” he says, more insistently, “I came to help you, Killua. Do you still want to get away from your family?”

Killua hesitates, wary. But — a favor in return for a favor. If his wishes are limited…

“If you’re offering,” he says noncommittally, “there’s definitely no way I’m staying here.”

Gon’s face lights up like the sun, achingly familiar, and Killua is torn between wanting to smile back and keeping his guard up. He’s _missed_ Gon, and now it hits him harder than expected.

If he’s going to get Gon back, he has to be careful.

Killua stands from his bed and walks to the desk, and Gon's eyes follow him. He seems to have picked up on something, because the exuberance has faded quickly. Killua lifts the last iron ring from the desk, and the chain as well, despite his discomfort at the charge on it.

He doesn’t care if the jinni knows that Killua doesn’t believe him. It’s alright if they’re on the same page, for now; and anything pretending to be Gon will be painfully persistent. He doesn’t expect that either of them will give way anytime soon.

He clasps his iron necklace around his neck and slips the seventh of his iron rings onto his thumb and holds a hand out to Gon, who watches him with sad eyes.

Finally, Killua breaks the silence. “Let’s get out of here.” He's extended a hand unthinkingly, but even when he remembers that this isn’t Gon, doesn’t warrant that easy physical closeness, Killua doesn’t draw back.

Gon (but not Gon, really) reaches for the offered hand without hesitation, even though his skin smoulders and sparks like tinfoil in a microwave where Killua’s rings touch his fingers, and Killua grits his teeth because this is what has to be done.


	2. a curse and a contract

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How's your geography? Mine is bad, and I had to do a bit of research for this. As you'll recall, Killua begins in Georgia, right on the Russian border. In this chapter, he travels south to Tbilisi, Georgia's capital, and then on to Baghdad, capital of Iraq. They end, of course, in Dubai — one of the most international cities in the world. Like many international cities, English is everywhere, so that's what the kids are speaking.
> 
> Again, huge, _huge_ thanks to my beta [Scott](https://wasp-that-never-misses.tumblr.com/) for all his work on this fic! And you can check out the fantastic art for this fic [here](http://witches-nighttime.tumblr.com/post/161347814277/im-late-to-the-party-my-hxh-bb-entry-for) and [here](https://peppermint-soup.tumblr.com/post/161417297813/here-is-my-artwork-for-teasdays-fic-in-light-of).
> 
>  

The escape from the Zoldyck manor goes downhill in more ways than one, though it starts off surprisingly well. Still holding Killua’s hand, the jinni is able to mask their presence from cameras and various sensors, even from the eyes of the butlers (they slip right by Canary at the gate, with her none the wiser) though by what magic, Killua doesn’t know. He can still see Gon, and he can look down and see himself, but they go unnoticed by everyone else.

But Gon's hand never ceases sparking, and his magic fizzles and begins to feel charred around the edges of Killua’s senses. He can almost smell smoke, and though he’s sure he’s only imagining it, it makes his head ache.

It gets worse as they go down the mountain. Worse still, though, is the warm press of skin that feels unjustifiably human against Killua’s hand, given how badly it’s clashing with the iron rings. Killua walks slightly behind, so that Gon is directly in his line of vision as they descend.

He finds himself studying the jinni, playing a game of spot-the-difference, but the only visible thing is the frequent spark between their hands. Familiarity seems to… throb, and Killua knows better, he’s been taught better than this, but he catches himself time and again taking note of things about _Gon_ , and not the jinni that looks like him.

Frustrated with himself, and with the mystery surrounding Gon and the jinni both, Killua’s mood slowly fouls, curdling like milk.

“Killua, your yard is so huge,” the jinni marvels as he leads the way at a decent trot, over rocks and roots and around tufts of scrub. They're coming through a patch of pine, sweeping branches thick above their heads and dry needles crunching underfoot. “I got lost trying to find your house, actually.” He laughs sheepishly, his tone light as though making casual conversation.

“Why did you come?”

The jinni throws a glance back over his shoulder, momentarily caught off guard. “To find you, Killua. I told you. I know you didn't want to be at home, you wanted to get out. You said, I remember, your parents are super strict… I was right, huh? I wasn't sure, when I got here and everything was all sealed up. I thought, maybe Killua doesn't mind so much, or something. But then I had to make sure, and — I'm sorry I just broke in like that…” he offers the sheepish laugh again. “The window was open, and I had to… I needed to make sure you were good. I scared you though, eh? You seemed kinda freaked when I… this morning… ah, sorry, Killua.”

He slows down slightly, so Killua falls into step next to him and then sets the pace as the jinni glances at him for a response.

“I called you back in, didn't I?”

Gon’s laugh is almost relieved, something bright and out of place. It sounds like sunny days at school, not the moonlit forests of the Zoldyck grounds. “Yeah, you did, huh?”

He probably doesn’t realize that Killua can sense magic so clearly. So the jinni can’t know what Killua knows: that Gon had been fully and incontestably human. Not a trace of magic on him; and Killua’s senses can’t lie.

When Killua has nothing more to say, they fall into silence. Even the crunch of pine needles beneath their shoes is muffled by the thick forest around them. Regular, _human_ Gon probably couldn’t navigate woods so dark, Killlua knows. Regular, human Gon wouldn’t have run away from school to find Killua, either.

He’d talked about wanting to search for his absent father. This — breaking Killua out — wouldn’t have factored in. There’s something disappointing in that, maybe.

That’s annoying. The sense of disappointment, because Killua does know better than to hope for that kind of all-consuming friendship, or whatever. He can’t expect Gon to prioritize him.

It’s stupid that the jinni would expect him to believe this.

An angry little tangle of emotion stirs up Killua’s stomach, but it helps him focus on the task at hand. He recalls again what Gon had said about Ging’s contact in the middle east. That’s the best lead he has, so he weighs the risks of probing the jinni for information and decides to take the chance.

“Hey, Gon,” he says.

Pine needles crunch underfoot, and the jinni looks over.

“Mm?”

“Do you remember,” Killua says slowly, weighing his words, “what you told me about your dad’s friend? The one in Dubai?”

The jinni almost startles; he blinks at Killua in surprise. “Oh! You remember that?” He smiles and looks pleased, and Killua has to fight back a scowl. “He’s working at the Burj Khalifa,” Gon says, oblivious. “What about him?”

Killua hums. “I was thinking he might know where Ging is,” he tells the jinni. He stares into the trees ahead of them, watching Gon’s face out of the corner of his eye.

Frowning, the jinni looks down and away, casting his face in shadow, and Killua wonders for a moment if the jinni will finally give up the ruse. But then (after some rustling) he straightens, and in his hand he’s brandishing an envelope pulled from his pocket.

“I _know_ where Ging is, Killua,” says the jinni, brandishing a folded slip of paper. “He sent me a letter.” His expression is soft, but Killua thinks the slant of his mouth isn’t quite a smile.

He takes the letter and pauses, standing in a spot of moonlight, to glance at it. _Never trust the occult,_ Killua thinks, heart clenching.

The scrawl is messy, like it was written quickly, and likewise Killua skims it only briefly. There’s an apology for writing so rarely — that sounds authentic enough — and then a few paragraphs about the new site Ging is working at, near Bangladesh. He’s enclosed a small souvenir in the envelope.

“He sent me a cool rock,” Gon cuts in, fishing into his pocket and producing a shiny bluish shard of what might have been tile. Killua doesn’t know, he’s not an archaeologist.

He folds up the letter without a second glance. The creases are soft and worn under his fingers, and Killua finds himself handling the paper with care. He offers it back.

“You’re a jinni,” he tells the spirit. It feels good to hear the words out loud. “This doesn’t prove anything.”

Disappointment flashes across Gon’s face, but the jinni takes the letter back and carefully tucks it into the envelope. “If Killua thinks so,” he murmurs, as if to himself.

“You don’t think it seems too convenient?” Killua says before he can catch himself, but his tone is level.

The jinni meets his eyes now, something earnest in his gaze. “You can’t trust spirits,” he says, and Killua swallows. “I get it. You gotta be cautious, eh? Here,” he extends a hand to Killua. “Let’s make a deal.”

Knowing how these things are sealed, Killua draws back. “I’m not making a deal with you.”

Still, his eyes dart to Gon’s mouth.

Once, on lunch break behind a shed on the school lawn, Killua had kissed Gon. They hadn’t gotten much of a chance to talk about it, after, because the bell had rung for science class and, well. He wonders if the jinni knows about that. The kiss.

Reaching into his shirt, Killua pulls out the gold box. It rotates on the end of its chain, winking in the moonlight.

“You owe me,” he reminds the jinni in an icy tone. “I don’t need to bargain with you for my safety.” He gives the chain a shake for good measure. “This is all the contract we need.”

Gon’s eyes look troubled. “Not that kind of deal, Killua — just, friendship. We’re working together, eh?”

Wary, Killua nods. “You mean we should agree to get along.”

Gon’s answering grin is blinding, and Killua looks away and rolls his eyes. “Of course we’re working together,” he tells the jinni, and holds out his hand again.

In the moonlight, Gon’s hand looks so dark against Killua’s own washed-out pallor, even illuminated as it is by all the sparks.

* * *

By the time they finally come to a stop, the sky has long since gone completely dark and their legs are aching and they’ve hardly spoken and Killua misses Gon _so much_ even knowing that this doppleganger here is not the friend he’s lost.

But not lost. Killua is going to find Gon.

They’ve finally reached the hulking iron gates that mark the bounds of the Zoldyck estate. Killua moves forward automatically, reaching for freedom — but Gon does not. He stays planted a step behind Killua.

Killua turns as their hands jerk, and magic spits between them and the jinni winces but doesn’t make a sound.

“Killua, I can’t,” he gestures at the doors, “I can’t go through.”

“Oh.”

Killua has thought of this, and he reaches under his collar to produce the gold box. The jinni sees it and nods in understanding.

Carefully, carefully, they step as close as they can to the iron gate because they must be quick, they’ve come too close to the end to be caught now. Gon’s hand is still sparking, and Killua worries that the light might give them away, even while the jinni keeps them invisible.

“Killua, don’t let go until we have to,” the jinni says, drawing closer to Killua’s side.

“I _know._ ”

Killua doesn’t look at him. He puts his hand against the tall iron door and pushes it open just a crack, barely narrow enough for him to squeeze through, and then he releases Gon’s hand. In the next instant he feels no trace of magic around him at all. The box feels no heavier, but Killua has to trust that the jinni’s inside.

A breeze kicks up in time with Killua’s suddenly racing heart. He slips sideways through the door, feeling alone and exposed, suddenly more off-balance without Gon. Out of the corner of his eye (he doesn’t waste time to really look) he can see the faint light of the guardhouse window.

It doesn’t matter if it’s occupied, there’s nothing he can do. Still, the thought of being caught so soon makes his heart clench, and he pushes himself out of the iron gate.

And then in a flash, as he steps onto public land, Gon is taking his hand. Killua presses the door shut behind him, and Gon is tugging him forward, and then they’re running, down the gravel path away from the mountain. The gold box bounces against Killua’s chest.

He doesn’t look to the guard house. He doesn’t know if Zebro will be watching for wayward children trying to _leave_ the property, but no one calls out after them and no footsteps sound behind them.

“Do you think,” Killua asks, raising his voice over the rush of wind and the pounding of their feet, “we were seen?”

The guardhouse must be out of sight by now, but they don’t slow yet. Gon laughs.

“It’s alright. They can’t follow us.”

The night sky is clear above him, the road is broad and open and Gon’s hand is still clasped in his and he is _free_ and he can almost imagine that the hand he’s holding really does belong to his friend. The iron between them, though, is warmer than the jinni’s palms.

* * *

Killua’s not stupid; he knows that spirits aren’t the only things that lie. There’s always the possibility that Gon isn’t missing from school at all, or that he’s actually gone home under perfectly normal circumstances, and Illumi is deliberately misleading Killua.

He doesn't speak much to the jinni as they make their way towards the nearest town, feeling increasingly unsettled the farther away from home they go. It's one thing to be away at school; it's another thing to have run off with a magical being without anyone else being the wiser.

Doubt gnaws at him.

"Hey, Killua." The jinni walks close, their shoulders almost brushing. "Where do we go now?"

"Into town," Killua tells him shortly.

"Oh. Okay."

They walk a few paces further, and then the jinni says, "What will we do then?"

"Then I need to make a phone call."

Killua's eyes slide sideways without his bidding, but Gon doesn't seem bothered by the short answers. He walks with a spring in his step, like his shoulders are unburdened.

Killua is grateful. He's not quite ready to argue with the jinni about identities. He knows there will have to be a more serious conversation, but… not yet.

They make good time, and it's not quite dawn by the time they reach the town.

"We've covered a lot of ground, hey, Killua?" The jinni squints back towards the mountain, but the manor's no longer visible. The mountain itself is hard to make out against the night sky.

"We're still too close." Killua frowns, mentally charting their distance. "They might not have noticed yet, but they definitely will by dawn. As soon as — the butlers are gonna notice." He can picture the poor butler who sweeps into his room this morning with their sage ready, only to find an empty bed.

The jinni takes pause, and he fixes Killua with a short look. "Are you okay to keep going?"

Killua has gone much longer than this without rest, but he doesn’t say that. "Of course. We don't really have a choice."

The jinni looks like he wants to disagree, but he doesn't say anything as they venture on into town. It's completely quiet at this time of night, though there are a few lights on in one or two of the houses they pass. Slow silhouettes beginning to shuffle around in preparation for the day — those who work very far, or on farms, maybe. They hear the sound of a door slamming, and from behind a fence they hear the patter of feet, quiet snuffling along the fence. The sky will start to lighten soon, but it's still very, very early.

They head towards the town centre. Killua is used to seeing cities in this light; he doesn't do it regularly, because there's no way for a young kid to walk around deserted streets at night and _not_ be noticed, but he's been around for family trips. Somehow, the sleeping houses here seem more alien, though he’s been through town plenty of times before.

"Ha, it's kind of creepy, isn't it?" Gon laughs, voice low. There's no one around to hear them.

Killua shrugs. "I guess."

He glances over, but the jinni doesn't look creeped out — he looks a bit excited by it. He doesn't seem at all tired, either. Killua wonders if jinn need to sleep at all.

Downtown, here, isn’t much — a collection of small shopfronts, a corner store, a small bar. There’s only one building on the main street lit up when they reach the town centre, and it's a 24-hour diner tucked behind a bright gas station. Without speaking, Gon angles them towards it, not especially subtly, but Killua lets him because it'll be as good an excuse as any for what he needs to do.

His stomach aches with hunger, anyways, reminding him of how little he ate last night. Poor planning on his part, he reflects.

There are no other customers when they troop inside, and the jinni heads for a scuffed-up table in the centre of the diner, falling into the chair with a sigh that suggests he’s more tired than he’d said he was. Killua looks around as Gon leans back in his chair and stretches. The vinyl seats of the booths along the window are cracked, tufts of yellowing fluff sprouting like fungi in places. There’s a plastic red-rimmed clock hung above the counter, to Killua’s right, but it seems to be stuck at 1:35. The second hand twitches in place, ticking faintly.

The lighting is yellow and noisy, and the one tired waiter slouched behind the counter looks sort of yellow too, in the light, with heavy bags under his eyes. His apron is a patchwork of highly suspect stains. He didn’t look up as they came in, and he doesn't meet their eyes even as he comes by their table to drop off their menus.

Once he's shuffled away to lurk sleepily behind the counter again, the jinni picks up his menu and begins browsing.

"Oh. It’s not…” he frowns.

“It’s Georgian,” says Killua, rolling his eyes. “What did you expect?”

Gon pouts, and Killua sighs and asks, “Eggs and sausage?”  

“Yes please,” the jinni beams. “Thank you, Killua! Know what you want?"

Killua glances at the menu in front of him and zeroes in on, "French toast. With whipped cream and chocolate sauce.”

"So you _are_ hungry.”

Killua scoffs. "I’d be fine. But since we're here…"

The jinni snickers quietly as Killua pushes back his chair, and the jinni looks up as he says, "I'm going to use the toilet. I'll be right back."

"Okay," says Gon, with more chirp than the situation warrants.

Whatever. The jinni is a good impersonator, Killua can't deny it that.

He stops at the counter to order from the tired, yellowing waiter, who answers mostly in grunts. Then Killua crosses the diner towards the bathroom, situated near the front door.

It's as grimy a bathroom as any Killua has ever been in, and he has to step carefully to avoid getting toilet paper stuck to his soles. He lets the door swing shut behind him, checks both rickety stalls to be sure that they're empty, and locks the door to the restroom.

He'll have to ditch this phone as soon as they leave the diner, but it's an ancient nokia he swiped as a spare while he was at school, so it's at least safer than his own cellphone. He's banking on his parents not yet being aware of his disappearance, as well. The phone says it’s 5:23 am, which should leave them a bit of time.

The phone rings three times before he gets an answer. He's lucky it's the kind of boarding school that allows for worried parents to reach it at all hours (his mother’s demand); he doesn't like the idea of waiting any longer to double-check his facts.

"Hello?" The voice is calm and cool, very alert for this time of morning. As is standard with international schools, the language is English.

"I'm calling after one of your students," Killua says, in his best imitation of his father, and it’s not bad since his voice has started to drop. “Gon Freecs.” It’s a bit of a dicey move, but Killua seems to be really going for the terrible decisions tonight and in the grand scheme of things, this is far from the stupidest move he’s pulled in the past twelve hours.

“May I ask who this is?”

Killua tries to silently clear his throat, and says concisely, “Silva Zoldyck.”

There’s a pause. Killua holds his breath.

“Mr Zoldyck,” the voice says, crisp. Killua, for once in his life, thanks his lucky stars for how notoriously strange his family are that the odd hour raises no particular questions. “Unfortunately, we have not yet resolved the question of Mr Freecss’ whereabouts.” They sound ever so slightly chagrined.

So Silva has been keeping track of the situation. Killua exhales.

“He’s still missing.”

“He is. The school will certainly notify all parents of the school, and parents of students involved with Mr Freecss, as soon as any news becomes available. Will that be all?”

“Thank you. Yes, that’s all.”

Killua hangs up. He sets the phone down next to the sink, rinses his hands quickly, and leaves the phone behind.

It’s true, then. It’s probably good news, despite the sinking feeling in his stomach. At least it means he didn’t sneak out for nothing, he’d have been really screwed if he’d called only to find out that Gon was safe and sound on campus. Except that now, Killua has to figure out how to find him.

 

When Killua returns to the table, Gon isn't there.

Killua feels a spike of panic when he sees the empty chair, but the jinni’s only wandered over to the far end of the diner and is poking at a beaten-up jukebox. It's probably meant to add an air of charm to the place, but it's actually a kind of ugly thing, old and roughed up, its lights tarnished and flickering. Gon looks up before Killua can head over to meet him, and turns back to join him at the table.

"It doesn't work," he says, shaking his head. He looks genuinely disappointed.

"What did you want to play?" Killua asks, sliding into his own chair.

"Hm?"

"What song did you want to pick?"

"Oh—" the jinni shrugs. “I wanted to see what they had.”

Killua realizes as soon as Gon says this that this is exactly the answer he was hoping for. Gon doesn’t know music. Not in terms of specific song titles, at least, so much as catchy hooks and chorus lines, bits he recognizes from what other people have played for him.

It's unsettling how easy it is to talk to him, even with the unfamiliar thrum of magic making it so desperately clear to Killua that this person — jinni — is not his friend.

"Mm." Killua taps his feet quietly under the table, suddenly annoyed with himself. Fishing for evidence of _Gon_ isn’t helping anything.

The food arrives quickly. Killua keeps an eye on the window, trying to gage the colour of the sky, but it's harder to guess with the light from the gas station outside pooling in the lot. Contrast makes the sky seem darker than it probably is.

"Let's eat fast," Killua says when the waiter has shuffled off, but the jinni is already digging in with enthusiasm.  

Killua makes a note: jinn, apparently, are just as capable of enjoying this kind of food as humans.

There's something distinctly reassuring in that. He'd heard that they only ate bones, if they ate at all. Gon's preference for savory things is a bit boring, but at least it's human food.

Killua pictures his bedroom in its stillness, and wonders if the butler — whoever comes in this morning — will notice the empty bed as soon as the door swings open and the light from the hallway cuts across the hall in from the hall, or if it’ll take a minute before they realize. The bedsheets were left tucked in. He should have thought of that before he left, his bed flat and tidy and unslept in.

The second hand on the still clock above the counter is still ticking, and Killua grits his teeth and curses it for not having the correct time. If it had been five thirty in the bathroom...

The clatter of cutlery shakes him from his mental math, and he looks up to see Gon finishing the last of his orange juice, plate empty of all but fork and knife. "Killua, you ready to go?"

Killua glances down at his own plate, which is only half finished. He drops his fork with a clatter. He’s not very hungry, anyways.

"Yeah. Let's go."

Gon is quiet now, trailing Killua as they step outside and Killua looks up at the sky. It's black as pitch, light pollution from the gas station still blocking the stars and any dawn light.

The streetlights grow farther apart as they leave the town centre. Now they’re outside, he can see that the sky is just beginning to brighten along the horizon.

Sunrise comes at odd hours in the mountains, later in the valley than at the peak, and Killua’s disappearance has surely been noticed by now. The jinni keeps pace quietly beside him, but after five minutes or so he speaks up.

"Hey, Killua, what now?"

Killua doesn’t hesitate. “We’ll take the train. It goes to Tbilisi, from there we’ll have to transfer. We’d better be gone before my family sends someone after us." Probably Illumi.

If Illumi finds them, they're screwed — or at least, Killua will be. The jinni can probably just make himself disappear, but — unlike the butlers — Illumi won’t be fooled by any glamour a spirit could try to throw on Killua. He’ll be dragged home and locked up for the next decade, probably.

The train station isn’t far, just on the edge of town, and the ticket master smiles sleepily at them and doesn't ask what they’re doing up so early. As far as he knows, they’re just a boy and his jinn, travelling into the city.

It’s half past six now, which gives them a fifteen-minute wait for the next train. Except for one lone figure down the platform, they're alone when they get through the turnstiles, which Killua prefers. Fewer witnesses.

The station is open to the sky, and across the tracks, rising above the ribbed tin roof overhanging the opposite platform, the mountains are glowing with the dawning light.

Gon shifts restlessly from foot to foot. Killua doesn’t know if it’s nerves about the train, or if he’s just projecting and Gon’s only being his usual restless self.

But this is _not Gon._

Killua shakes his head sharply and brings the jinni to settle with a hand on his shoulder. "The train'll be here soon. We'll make it." He bites his tongue and doesn't really believe it, though.

He can only hope that they make it before his family comes down the hill and tracks him to the station. The fifteen minutes seems to drag, and Killua in turn finds himself shifting anxiously on the balls of his feet.

But sure enough, and right on schedule, the train does arrive.

It pulls into the station with a screech that makes Killua’s teeth hurt. They've had the same trains running these tracks for at least forty years now, and the windows are scratched with graffiti,  the doors rough as they rattle open.

Gon steps on first, and Killua glances over his shoulder, half-expecting to see his brother’s huge dark eyes coming through the turnstile. He sees the ticket master leaning on his chin in the overbright light of his booth, and past that, nothing but the empty road.

Killua steps onto the train. They're the only ones in this car, so they take the nearest seats and make themselves as comfortable as they can.

"So, what now?" the jinni asks, as they race further and further away from the shadow of Mount Kazbek.

"From Tbilisi we’ll have to transfer, maybe more than once," Killua says first, turning to Gon. "We’ll need to get money in Dubai. And then…” and then Killua will go looking for Gon, _real_ Gon, wherever he's vanished to. "Where can we find Ging’s friend?”

“In Dubai?”

Killua hums.

“He’s with the DSADS. Their office is in the Burj Khalifa — that really tall building in Dubai, you know it?”

Killua does know it. “Sure,” he says noncommittally, though he’s remembering what Illumi taught him.

“He sometimes works around Sama Alsaha, which is in that building too,” the jinni goes on. “Cause there’s a lot of spirits there.”

Ah, right — Ging has studied spirits. Killua pulls a face.

Outside, the countryside is mostly shadow, dominated by the looming mountains of the Khokh range. The sky above is steadily beginning to lighten.

“What is it?” Killua asks, watching the dark countryside go by. He thinks he knows, though — the name sounds familiar.

“Sama Alsaha? It’s a fighting ring.”

In the window, Killua’s dull reflection grimaces. “For spirits,” he confirms, because Illumi’s told him about this. The Zoldycks used to go there, he remembers now — Illumi had trained there. Before it had become associated with spirits, and the family had pulled out.

“Mhmm.” In the window, the jinni nods. “We could maybe go there, Killua, eh?”

Killua turns away from the window.

“Go — to the arena?”

“Well, I was thinking — since, Killua, you probably don’t have a lot of cash? And I’ve got nothing, but if I could fight, we could get some money. And we can look for Ging’s friend there, too.”

Killua hesitates, but the promise of a lead — that snags him. Quickly, before he can chicken out, he asks, “You fight?"

The jinni laughs. "Of course! Hey, Killua, " he seems to soften. "It's been a long night. How long until we get off?"

"A few hours," Killua says, unsure of anything more specific. He thinks he’s grateful for the change of topic, doesn’t want to think of what they’re tentatively planning to do.

"Killua, you should try to sleep," Gon suggests, making himself more comfortable on the bench. "We probably have a long way to go, eh?"

Watching the jinni carefully, Killua weighs his trust. But his eyes are itching with tiredness, and he can feel the headache that's been simmering behind his eyes has begun to spread.

"What about you?" he asks, because if jinn eat human food, they might need to sleep as well.

"I'll try to sleep too," Gon says, "but if you want someone to keep a watch out–"

"No," Killua sighs and leans back against the window. It rattles against his skull, so he pillows his arm against it and that helps. "Rest. You're right, we're going to be busy when we get to Dubai."

* * *

Killua dozes on and off for most of the day, lulled by the movement of the train, drained from the long night. The countryside brightens and the scenery shifts rapidly: leaving the Khokh Range behind, the Caucasus Mountains descend into plains, dense farmland gives way to forest or marsh. It’s a long ride, even by train. Gon, despite his offer to keep watch, sleeps soundly next to Killua as other passengers board and leave. The sky, for the most part, remains remarkably clear above them, the sun shining brilliantly across the speeding scenery.

They change trains twice that day. The second train is newer and nicer than the first, and the third is nicer still, gleaming silver with plush blue seating and clear windows. Killua winces as he hands over the money for his ticket in Baghdad Central Station, but Gon gets to ride for free. It’s standard policy for jinn in Iraq.

It’s late evening by the time they disembark, and they pile off with a crowd of other people onto the central platform in downtown Dubai. After the long stretch of flat desert, the city is refreshing to look at, and Killua drinks it in as they make their way outside. Even after dark, the heat is stifling.

“Where now, Killua?”

The jinni yawns, trying to stifle it behind a bleary fist. Killua can empathize. The long day of travel has left his limbs feeling dull, his head muzzy.

“You’re the one who knows where the place is,” Killua grumbles. “Now we find a place to sleep, I guess. And tomorrow,” he looks up, over the roof of the station, at the towering skyscraper that rises over the city.

“There’s the Burj Khalifa.” Gon says the name strangely, throaty on the _kh_.

“And Sama Alsa-a,” says Killua, around the tightness in his throat.

“You’re not saying it right.”

Killua scoffs. "The name? Stu-pid. That’s what you focus on? You don’t mind having to fight other jinn?”

“It’s not just jinn, is it? – Not really,” the jinni shakes his head. “I know how. I’m good at fighting.”

Killua sets off walking in the direction of the tower. “Obviously it’s other spirits, not just jinn. Technically, there _are_ no jinn,” he says, as if Gon doesn’t already know. “It’s illegal to conjure and tie them here. Of course, people do it anyways.”

Gon frowns at that, and Killua pretends not to see. He looks at the building signs instead, scanning for a hotel.

“I thought you didn’t know Sama Alsaha,” the jinni says, falling into step with Killua.

“Not much.” Killua hesitates, then says, “Illumi told me a little bit. That Dubai is dangerous even though it’s _technically_ illegal to bind jinn. Other spirits are allowed, so it’s hard to enforce the law, and anyways, plenty of guys in power want to bind jinn. The ring draws a lot of powerful people as well.”

The jinni watches him with an unreadable expression.  “You know a lot, Killua.”

Killua shrugs, uncomfortable. “Just what my brother taught me.”

They wander towards the Burj Khalifa, which is farther than it seemed at first. By the time they find a good place, Killua's feet are dragging and his eyes and his head ache.

It's an odd find in the middle of Dubai, this tired, brutalist building in the midst of shining chrome towers, but cheap and close to where they need to be. Killua pays for their room, and the young receptionist slides their key across the desk, no small talk. Maybe she's taking pity on them. He knows they probably don't look their best right now.

Killua lets the jinni enter their room first. It's a small room, furnished with two twin beds under a long, narrow window that cuts across the far wall, two small wooden end-tables, two lamps, and a single cramped desk. Killua watches Gon's back as he crosses the room and falls face-first onto the duvet, patterned with the kind of swampy florals that seem to have been popular about thirty years ago.

Killua takes his time following him, toeing off his shoes at the door, dropping the chain into place and double-checking the locks out of habit. He thinks, as he crosses the room to pull the curtains closed against the glare of the city, that he needs to talk to Gon. Gon who is not Gon, who insists that he's Killua's friend, that they know each other–

Gon snores, quietly, and sighs loudly, already asleep. Killua decides that this conversation will have to wait.

* * *

The way it works is this: magic workers who have bound spirits to their bidding can enter their contracted spirit into a ring and set them to fight against the other spirits.

The jinni explains the arena to Killua over their complementary breakfast at the hotel, because Killua only knows what Illumi had told him and that hadn’t covered any details. It seems a little barbaric to him now, and just the thought of coming here makes him nervous in a way that feels strange and unfamiliar, an unrest that prickles under his skin.

_Never trust the occult_ , Killua thinks as they approach the building.

It's enormous; when he cranes his head to look up, it seems to go on forever. It's hard to wrap his head around.

"Whoa, Killua," Gon breathes, eyes like saucers. "Isn't it so tall? There could be an entire city just in here."

"There basically is," Killua says, stepping up to the revolving doors.

The jinni’s footsteps follow slowly behind him as he casts around for an elevator. The atrium is bright, a wide space and arching ceilings filled with a murmur of voices. The outside walls, entirely made of glass, cast light across the entryway.

The elevators are easy to spot by following the flow of people, and next to them a floor guide is printed on the wall in English and Arabic. It's later in the morning, past rush hour and not remarkably busy. The elevator is crowded when they get on, though, and it gets worse the higher they rise.

Like riding a bus, Killua thinks.

When they step out onto the first floor of Sama Alsa-a ( _Alsaha_ , Gon insists) the air is so heavy with the presence of magic that Killua nearly steps back. He feels it like a weight on his shoulders. They're met with a white hallway and a small reception counter, to which they head directly.

The woman sitting behind the counter peers at them over her thin-rimmed glasses as they approach. Her expression is highly skeptical, probably because of their age, but she says nothing of it and Illumi hadn’t been more than ten when he’d come here, so Killua is pretty sure she can't refuse them on that basis.

She reeks of a curse at the tusks that sprout from her jaw, interrupting the crisp line of her hijab and jutting out of her otherwise very human face. Killua sets his teeth and tries to ignore the particular itchy charge of it. He’s not sure if it's the curse or natural ability — it could be either, or something else entirely — but the woman takes one sniff of the two of them, and her eyes zero in on the jinni.

"No humans in the fighting ring," she says in a smoker’s voice. "Dunno what you put on him, but he smells something human." She turns to fix her eyes on Killua, and they're piercing, curse-ridden eyes. "This is no place to fool around. You will get hurt."

“What?”

_He smells human_. Killua’s throat feels suddenly tight, and his eyes cut to the jinni.

The buzz of _otherness_ on him is abrasive, and Killua has no sense for _human-ness_ , only for magic. He thinks suddenly of all the horrible stories he’s ever heard about possession, and he feels sick.  ~~What if Gon _is_ here?~~

Killua’s memories of the weeks following Alluka's funeral are fuzzy. He had let others take the lead, and what he remembers most are gentle directions: Killua, wake up. Killua, you have to eat. Killua, it’s time to resume your training.

He remembers denial as well, but secondarily. He remembers waiting for Alluka to come back, but she hadn’t.

Killua takes a short breath, deep as he can, and tries to ignore the sudden flurry of questions in his mind. His head hurts. "He's only half.” Does that explain it? “But he's bound like any other jinni."

He realizes his mistake as soon as the word is out of his mouth, but the secretary doesn’t seem fazed, just carries on watching him patiently until Killua reaches under his shirt and fishes out the iron chain.

The secretary peers down her tusks and raises her eyebrows. "Jinn, hm. Confirmation papers?"

Again, Killua almost falters. Confirmation papers — of what kind?

He glances to Gon. As if from thin air, the jinni produces a thin white envelope and offers it across the counter.

“I take after my dad’s side, too. He’s the jinni.”

The secretary raises an eyebrow and slides out the contents of the envelope to peer at them. Killua tries subtly to catch a glimpse of what’s written on them, but before he can, she folds the papers up and slides them back inside. She leans across her counter, takes another long sniff, then sits back with a satisfied nod.

"Not possession, alright,” she confirms, and Killua feels an immense surge of relief. His head clears as he relaxes. “I suppose,” the woman goes on, “this is unconventional, but if you're only half — well. We've made exceptions before." She shuffles around behind the desk for a moment before producing a few forms and two pens. "The number of people who try to enter a jinni in a human vessel..." the woman tsks as she bends over the papers. 

Half-jinn, the spirit had said, and Killua clings to that. Gon is not possessed; and if the jinni seems human at all, it’s not because Gon is somewhere inside. It's not Gon's human personality shining through.

Gon is not here.

Killua will find him.

“We’re going to write you in as undetermined, of course," the woman goes on, and Killua winces internally at the reminder of his slip-up. "Don’t advertise what you are. I’m sure you already know this, but it’s illegal to have a contracted jinni anywhere in the UAE.” She waits until Killua nods in answer. “Obviously, if unspecified spirits are entered into the arena, we bear no responsibility if they’re discovered to be jinn. That’s in the contract, too. Magical contracting is perfectly legal, of course, with any spirit other than jinn.” She slides the contract across the desk. 

Killua takes the papers, and his hand is steady as he signs quickly in all necessary places. He feels jittery though, on edge. He’s careful not to touch the gold box as he lifts the chain over his head; he’s keyed up enough without the additional spark of the jinni's magic that still lingers there. He pushes the forms back across the desk with the seal on top, and the secretary picks it up and examines it briefly.  

"Keep it out in the open for the arena, " she advises him as she hands it back. "That'll identify you as a user, not a spirit. Everything looks good, the seal checks out.

“We'll just need your jinni," she passes a new form across the counter. "He'll have to sign here."

The jinni steps forward and accepts the pen.

She hardly acknowledges him, most of her attention — like her words — directed at Killua. But as the jinni tries to hand the form back, she shakes her head.

"Wrong format. It's standard procedure," she explains to Killua, tapping the paper, "but we need this as a secondary seal on your spirit. So he'll be subject to our code of conduct. It's all in the forms you just signed yourself, which you’ll get a copy of. But he'll have to sign in his first language. Stronger, that way." With a flick of her index finger across the page, the jinni's scrawled name disappears, and she passes it back.

Killua blinks at the blank space, intrigued. He hasn’t often had the chance to see such casual spellwork.

The jinni glances up at her, takes the pen again, and this time writes quickly: _جن فريقس._ He passes back the pen and paper to the secretary.

"Thank you, Jon,” she says, casting a cursory glance over it, and Killua catches Gon’s eye.

_Jon?_ He mouths, silently.

The jinni shrugs and shakes his head.

“ _Dialect,_ ” he whispers, not particularly quietly, and the woman glances up.

Killua stares at the jinni for a beat and thinks that, if written language matters, a mispronounced name could also weaken a contract. Name magic is a weird thing: given names hold power, and if the jinni has named himself Gon, and uses the name as his own, so the name ‘Gon’ will hold sway over him. But Killua’s knowledge of magic in all its iterations, with its many complicated rules, is lacking.

The woman clears her throat.

“Your signatures expire in six months, at which point you'll have to renew them then. If you want to cancel your contract early, you can come to this desk and we'll sort that out for you. Here's your copy of the contract," she slides the papers to Killua, "and if you have any further questions, call the number on the last page. Anything else?"

Killua declines, but thanks her as he fastens the iron chain once more around his neck. He can’t feel the buzz of the seal through his shirt, which he’s grateful for, what with the heavy pressure of so much magic in the air. It’s all coming directly from the doors they’re about to walk through.

“Killua?”

The jinni is watching him, question unspoken but concern in his angled eyebrows.

Killua has never been to a hub of magicians or other users like this before. He’s felt the charge on Illumi for as long as he can remember, and he’s brushed with it before, but until now those had only been brief encounters.

The burst of energy when he’d accidentally cracked the seal had been the exception. Killua had stumbled upon the small gold box in the science classroom with Gon, remembers how he’d reached down curiously, and then — the split flash of unbearable heat, the way that all the shadows had vanished from the room as if swept away, and then, beginning in his fingertips where they had pressed against the cool metal — the tickling, prickling feeling of something otherworldly had sunk through him.

That had been the strongest he’d ever felt it.

This isn’t the bone-deep feeling of breaking the seal on the jinni in that classroom,  but it’s everywhere now, heavy and inescapable like humidity but more alive. Something on the edge of action — it’s not a feeling that language can easily accommodate. He doesn’t try to explain it to the jinni.

“We can get started now. Hope you’re ready — do you need to warm up?” He steps towards the doors leading into the arena proper.

Gon lights up. “I think I’m all set!”

“That’s good.” Killua steels himself. “Hope you weren’t lying about being able to fight.”

* * *

The jinni wasn’t lying.

He takes the first few rounds easy as breathing, and then there’s a break between fights and he comes over to Killua still bouncing on his toes and grinning like a mad thing. Killua expected the fights to slow him down some, but he’s raring to keep going, like he’s hyped on caffeine. Killua considers and dismisses the idea of getting him an energy drink for later, as they make their way through the line-up at one of the overpriced fast-food counters in the arena.

It’s around noon by now, the cafeteria space crowded with spectators and other competitors. Killua tries to look for a clear table, but nothing seems to be available.

“Go grab us a seat, while I wait in line,” he suggests to Gon. “What do you want me to order?”

“I’m not really hungry,” the jinni insists, ducking under the divider for the line. “Just, water or something? I’m okay, really.”

“You’ve got all afternoon left to fight, you’ve gotta keep your energy up, stupid. Go find a seat,” he says again, and the jinni reluctantly scampers off into the crowd.

Despite Gon’s protests, Killua orders a sizeable tray of rice and an assortment of curries, plus an extra bottle of water for later, then turns to the task of finding the jinni among the crowded tables. This proves easier than expected — the jinni stands from where he’s seated at the end of a long table and waves his arms over his head when he spots Killua leaving the line, turning a few heads as he calls out, “Killua! Over here!”

“Killua, I said I wasn’t hungry,” the jinni says as Killua sets down the tray.

“Too bad. Now you’d better help me finish all of this, or you’ll be wasting food.” He pushes the tray across the table as he takes his seat. “I know you like Indian, we’ve had it at school. Eat up.”

“Killua…” The jinni makes a face, but he obediently picks up the naan Killua tosses at him.

“Eat.”

Gon eats. He goes quiet after the first reluctant bite, as though tasting food has suddenly brought back his appetite — Killua’s a little bit in awe at how quickly the curry disappears.

Even distracted by the food, the jinni remains full of pent-up energy. The restlessness gets worse as he begins to slow on his meal, shifting in his seat and bouncing his leg until the table shakes.

“ _Gon_.”

Killua wants to reach under and put a hand on Gon's knee just to make him still, but the presence of magic around them is thundering enough without making contact with a jinni. Instead, he reaches for another bite of lamb curry and tries to ignore the rush of sensation around him. “Stop shaking the whole table.”

The jinni stops immediately, ducking his head with a sheepish smile.

“Sorry, Killua. I just — you know, after a fight, you get so much energy? I can’t sit still.” From the way his fingers start to flex, it’s probably only a matter of minutes before he’s back to the restless bouncing.

Killua does know.

“Save it for the next fight, then. Don’t just burn it, you’ll get too tired, we’ve got all day here.”

To the jinni's right, Killua notices the spirit at the next table glance over with interest. They look oddly young for a bound spirit, even next to Gon and Killua.

“I won’t burn out, don’t worry! This level is really easy.”

“Easy for you,” Killua reminds him, though he’s a bit taken aback himself at how weak the jinni's opponents have been. The arena is designed with different sections according to levels of difficulty, and Gon’s already leapt past the beginner levels. “It’ll get harder. Don’t get comfortable.”

The jinni shakes his head earnestly. “No, of course not! Just, it’s really hard to stay still right now. But I don’t think I’ll make it to any of the really high levels today anyways, right, Killua? There are so many levels to work through.”

The spirit at the next table is still watching them. Killua thinks they're some kind of yaojing, and he can feel their contractor beside him, but he doesn’t turn to look until the yaojing leans forward nervously to interject. “Uh,” he starts, sliding a glance at his contractor, “Sorry to interrupt, but are — you’re the new spirit that people have been talking about?”

Killua and the jinni both turn curiously to face their neighbours.

“People have been talking about me?” Gon looks genuinely surprised, as if he hadn’t realized he was unusual.

“Well, yes — of course,” says the yaojing, drawing back slightly as the jinni's focus turns on him. “You skipped fifty levels this morning. I heard.”

“This is your first time coming to Sama Alsaha, isn’t it?”

Killua jumps as the contractor beside him cuts in. The man has a serene air about him, in stark contrast with his spirit’s nervous fidgeting. His expression is of the kind of calm friendliness that immediately has Killua watching him carefully.

“It is,” Killua answers.

“Good start. You’re very impressive. I would be careful, though.”

Gon has the sense to act surprised at being personally addressed by a witch in the arena, and he peers at the contractor. "Careful, why?"

The man smiles at the jinni, unfazed by the direct address. "Ah, you're new, so you can't know yet. The rings are very competitive. Your talent means you do stand out — a lot of people have already noticed you. There are a lot of people here who will go to extremes in order to do well. You should watch out for them.”

The jinni looks vaguely troubled, but he shrugs. "I hope they do their best! Isn't that the point?"

"Don't underestimate them, Gon," Killua cautions. "Please. Sorcerers can be really shitty, especially when it's an issue of pride, and there's a lot of pride at stake here." Still, he turns back to the man. "We haven't even been here a whole day, though. That's not long enough to have earned too much notice, is it? It might be, like, beginner’s luck.” Gon makes an offended noise.

"Killua, isn't it?" the man asks, "I'm Wing, and this is Zushi.”

"You're his spirit?" Gon asks Zushi.

"He is," Wing confirms, before Zushi can answer.

Something about that doesn't sit right with Killua, not that he's in any position to judge.

Zushi glances between the three of them nervously before leaning in.

"About your question… it's not, uh, confirmed, or anything. But we’ve heard the Nostrade family is betting on you." He gives the jinni a significant look, as though that should mean something.

Gon, though, seems to be as clueless as Killua.

"Nostrade?" He glances in question at Killua, who shakes his head. "We haven't heard of those people."

"They're not super well-known outside of Sama Alsaha," Zushi tells them, voice lowered. "But they're big names in the arena. They're really powerful for a new family of magic users. And they _always_ bet right."

"Always?" Gon leans forward further. "Every time?"

Killua doesn't say anything, but he’s curious as well. Something niggles in the back of his mind.

"Well," Wing interjects, "often enough that they've earned a reputation. They don’t win every time, of course.”

"Of course.” Killua narrows his eyes and turns to the jinni. “Since they're betting on us — on you," Killua tells the jinni, "there’ll be a lot more people noticing us. Can you handle it?”

“Not just–” Zushi starts, “not just _noticing_ you, there’ll be spirits who see you as competition. Higher-level ones. They’re dangerous.”

Taking a moment to digest this, Killua casts around the food court. The oppressive thrum of magic feels sinister as ever.

“I’ll be careful," the jinni says, punctuating this with a nod. “And Killua’s pretty careful, too, eh?”

Killua raises his eyebrows. “We’ll both pay attention. It’s dangerous, I know.”

Saying that makes him think of Illumi, of all the repetitive promises he’s made to his brother. _It’s dangerous, I know._ Just a tired refrain. It feels more weighty now that he’s here, surrounded by real spirits.

It’s tempting to try blocking out the sense of magic, but he forces himself to concentrate on it. To recognize individual presences, rather than a senseless buzz of stimuli. His jinni is bright and familiar across from him, but the other bodies are harder to pick out.

It makes his headache spike, but if that’s what it takes to keep them both safe — he’ll live. Killua resigns himself to a bit of additional pain for a while. He’s a Zoldyck. He’ll get used to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why is it illegal to contract jinn in Dubai?
> 
> Short answer: It's in the Koran that jinn (distinct from _other_ spirits) cannot be contracted — in this world.
> 
> Long answer: Through google, I found a couple people in comment threads who claimed that, according to _their interpretation of the Koran,_ jinn should not be summoned. Others say sure, go ahead and summon one, nothing will happen (dumbass). Still others say that only a very strict muslim can keep a jinni bound, and breaking practice would release that jinni.  
>  UAE law isn't based on Sharia/Islamic law (it's very European, in fact) but it's influenced by Islam. European lawmakers wouldn't have set any precedent for dealing with regional spirits, so (in this 'verse) most laws re: magic are based in Islamic or regional precedent. 
> 
> What in this fic is made-up?
> 
> 'Yaojing', as I've dubbed Zushi, is just Chinese for 'demon', so in my mind it represents a number of different species, if you will. 
> 
> Aside from the obvious, the town at the base of Mt Kazbek is not real, and I don't know if Georgia has many 24-hour road diners with jukeboxes in them. Tbilisi and Baghdad both have national train stations, but you'd be hard-pressed irl to get around this region by train. Also, hoping to find a cheap motel near the Burj Khalifa? Godspeed.  
> If you DO find a cheapish place in Dubai, it won't usually have '80s american motel-style floral curtains, but it _might!_


	3. wish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as always, to [Scott](https://wasp-that-never-misses.tumblr.com/), my saint of a beta! Also huge thanks to my artists for the big bang, [witches-nighttime](http://witches-nighttime.tumblr.com/) and [peppermint-soup](https://peppermint-soup.tumblr.com/). 
> 
> And thank YOU, dear readers! I'm constantly so surprised and honoured by the feedback I've been getting. I meant to have this up two weeks ago, and I'm sorry it's so late — I've been trying to update every other Thursday, but I've been pretty busy. Thanks for bearing with me!

Killua stands on the sidelines, at the edge of the slightly raised area separated from the rest of the crowd. It's one of the only areas with seating, and it's reserved only for spirit contractors —  _users_. He feels weird here, exposed, like there’s something incriminating in standing in this section.

Killua watches the jinni take down yet another opponent. This one actually put up a bit of a fight — she almost surprised Gon with how quick she was at the start, but the jinni had gotten his bearings quickly. Now he seeks out Killua's eyes. He doesn’t even seem proud as they announce his win — excited, but not triumphant. Killua wonders if he even considers these to be proper victories.

For the first time in a while, at least a few rounds, Killua makes his way to the edge of the ring as Gon ducks out. The jinni blinks at Killua with wide eyes as he straightens up and spots him.

“Ah, everything alright, Killua?" Gon asks, unscrewing the lid from the water bottle he’s holding.

Killua waits until the jinni has taken a drink, tipping his head back and guzzling more than half the bottle in a heartbeat, before speaking. "You’re doing well,” Killua says, as the jinni scrubs a wrist across his mouth. “You weren't lying when you said you could fight."

"Of course not." The jinni caps his water. "Killua, you’ve seen me before."

"Schoolyard fights don’t count," says Killua, though he suddenly recalls how Gon had been able to nearly keep up with him in those scuffles. But that had been _Gon_. "Anyways–" Killua begins, and then he cuts himself off. The secretary's words sound again in his head, _he smells human_ , and Killua shakes his head.

"Anyways?"

"We'll talk when we get back to the hotel," he decides. He avoids Gon's uncanny eyes, watching him. "It's almost closing time for this section, anyways."

At that, the jinni looks around, and seems surprised to find that the crowds have died down. "It’s that late already? I hadn't noticed! Killua, if you want, I think we have time for one more match–"

Killua is shaking his head before the jinni’s finished speaking. He moves a little too quickly, and the action irritates the constant headache he's had all day, magic thrumming in his bones. It feels like he’s been leaning against the rattling window of a train like the ones they were on yesterday — he feels shaken down to the core. "We've made enough money," he says truthfully. "Besides, we’d better grab something to eat. "

"Oh– of course, Killua! You’ve gotta be pretty hungry." Even as he says this, the jinni lands a hand on his own stomach with a frown. "We haven’t eaten much today, eh?"

"We can grab something on the way back. Come on, let's collect your winnings."

" _Our_ winnings, right, Killua?” Gon corrects him with a grin. “I'm registered under your name."

Killua frowns and nods. His head aches. "Our winnings."

It's a hefty amount of money that Killua receives when they go to the collection counter. The line is long, but the number of zeroes on the cheque makes it well worth the wait, and Killua would swear that even his headache lifts a bit just by his looking at it.

The jinni stares at it for a long time as they take the elevator downstairs and make their way outside.

"This is so much money, Killua!"

"I told you," says Killua, who'd had no idea himself, "fighting's a good way to make money. And once we've saved up a bit, then…"

"Then what?"

Killua exhales and says nothing. Then, it will be time to figure out where Gon's gone, and the jinni will have to help, because Killua freed him, and because Killua holds his seal and something like his name.

They're going to have to talk about this, though.

"Hey, Killua?" The jinni asks when Killua doesn't answer, and Killua expects him to repeat the question, so he's surprised when the jinni continues with, "are you okay?” Killua glances at him and still doesn't reply. “I mean, especially at the arena, were you alright? You seemed — Killua, you seemed uncomfortable when we were there."

Killua weights his answer for a moment.

"I… am alright, I'm fine. I just don't like being places with a high concentration of users."

The jinni makes a little noise of understanding, though Killua's not sure what there is for him to understand. The jinni doesn’t know anything, really.

Neither of them says much else on the walk back to the hotel. They stop at a small hole-in-the-wall and collect some Shawarma to go, where Gon orders in easy Arabic. Killua offers a quiet thanks when the jinni hands him the wrap.

His headache eases as they get further from the tower, and the relief of being away from so much magic is enormous. Killua feels sort of numbed by the day, and especially by the intense focus he’s spent just trying to distinguish between sources of magic. At this point, the jinni feels like nothing more than a feeble flicker at the edge of his tired senses. The sun is still out, but it feels much later than it actually is as they trudge home. Killua blames time difference.

Actually, Killua is the only one trudging. Gon, meanwhile, is still full of energy by the time they reach the hotel.

“Hey, hey, Killua. Race you on the stairs?”

He’s bouncing on his toes, eyes bright like he hasn’t just spent an entire day fighting. If nothing else, at least this bodes well for the coming days.

“Mm… no thanks,” Killua says. He crumples up the empty wrapper from his dinner and drops it in the bin as they pass by in the hotel lobby.

“ _Killua_ ,” the jinni wheedles, walking backwards up the first few stairs. When Killua doesn’t respond, he pouts. “… fine, Killua, come at your own pace. I’m gonna race, still.” He spins on his heel. “See you at the top!”

For a moment Killua stares after him, glued to the first step. Gon races up the stairs in a flash, rounding the first flight and disappearing around the corner. Laughter trails after him, and Killua’s heels lift. He can’t help it.

Gon laughs again when Killua bumps his shoulder, halfway to the fourth floor. It’s a testament to how tired Killua is that it took so long. Killua laughs too, pushing himself.

“You wanted to race? Hah,” it comes out as a bit of a pant, which he compensates for by tapping Gon on the shoulder and pulling ahead. “Gotta try harder, lo-ser!

Their room is on the eighth floor, which is no small distance, but by the time they get there Killua feels surprisingly rejuvenated by the workout. He gets to the top and collapses anyways, because there’s no one else around to see. The carpet, dizzyingly close to his nose, is deep green and flecked with gold. He’s still grinning as he stretches out across the hall, limbs feeling loose and pleasantly warm.

Gon comes up a few paces behind and drops onto his back next to Killua, breathless and glowing.

“Hey – Killua,” Gon turns his head to face him as the laughter fades, “you – never said you were – so _fast_.”

Killua huffs. “Don’t underestimate people.” Gon’s face is flushed and his face is scrunched with happiness, and Killua feels something rise in his chest. “Stu–uupid.”

His cheek is pressed to the prickly carpet, so he can’t turn away. He reaches over to prod Gon roughly in the forehead instead.

“Ow.” Gon pulls back and rubs his forehead.

“That didn’t hurt.” Killua rolls his eyes and turns his face into the carpet as he tries to quash the awful sense of simmering affection. It looks so much like Gon.

With his hand pressed between his face and the carpet, Killua feels the cool press of his rings against his cheek. _That_ would’ve hurt the jinni, Killua thinks, and pushes himself to his knees.

"We've got to talk about… some things. First, before we plan or do anything else."

The jinni sits up, laughter falling away. "Oh, yeah. You wanted to say something earlier, eh? What’s up?"

Killua picks himself up and digs in his pocket for their room key. "We should go inside."

The jinni doesn't question this. He just stands and follows Killua to their door, apparently oblivious to the sudden tension that's taken Killua. He makes for his bed, and Killua mirrors him in taking a seat on their crisp duvets. Then there’s a pause wherein the jinni sits patiently with his feet pressed together in front of him, and Killua tries to think of how to begin.

"You're jinn."

Stating the obvious, easy to start with. Gon's eyebrows furrow slightly, but the jinni stays silent and waits for Killua to go on. Killua crosses his legs on the bed, bunching the hideously patterned duvet under his ankles. He stares at the jinni, smiling as placidly as Gon can on the other bed.

“Look. I know you’re not Gon,” he says, settling his elbows on his knees. “Your charge is different.” _Not Gon._ The receptionist at the arena might have recognized some truth to the jinni’s chosen name, but that doesn’t change anything. She hadn’t even said his name right. 

The jinni doesn’t frown even a little, this time, though he does give a thoughtful pause. “Oh, so Killua can feel auras?”

Killua shrugs. Close enough — and how do you explain sight to someone who’s never seen? He’s given up trying.

The jinni hums. “But I’m still Gon. The rest of me is the same.”

That isn’t true. "You can use that name. I won’t stop you.” Killua shrugs. “ _My_ Gon doesn't have — Gon's human. I know how this goes." He narrows his eyes. "Humans don't just _become_ magic. It doesn't work like that."

Gon's head tilts. "Only half–"

"It _doesn't work like that_ ," Killua repeats. He forces his hands to unclench. "I know the difference. I'm harder to trick than most people. I'm not," he grasps for a word, " _blind_."

The jinni sits back. "Even _I_ can't feel magic, unless it’s other jinn. Killua must be pretty unique, huh? But — still, Killua, just because you've got a sense for something, you still don’t know _everything_. I'm not — I'm not possessed."

Killua huffs. "That's what the lady at the arena said. Your documents check out."

"Of course.”

"And you’re using Gon’s name," Killua adds.

"Gon Freecss." 

"Sure. Gon Freecss. Isn't that dangerous? People know your full name. All our classmates. Why not take another one?" 

"It's not that easy." The jinni says, shaking his head. "Anyways, at the arena they only know my first name, eh? Publicly, I mean."

Killua sighs, and feels his headache begin to pick up again. He wishes he knew more about name magic.

“Who would’ve locked up your jinn side?” Killua tries, hoping to trip him up.

“My aether?” The jinni sits back. “Ging.”

He says it so plainly, like it’s a simple answer. Killua closes his eyes and tries to breathe. “Your father.”

“My dad, Ging,” the jinni repeats in Gon’s voice. It’s a transparent voice, honest and sure. When Killua opens his eyes again, he meets Gon’s earnest gaze.

“Why?”

“Maybe... he thought it would make me stronger. Like your family does to you, huh?” But the jinni shrugs. “Character building. I dunno,” he says, a touch too flippantly. Killua tenses.

“You can’t ask?”

The jinni looks away. “I was too young to remember. You know he’s always away, Killua. Maybe it was easier for _Eimmat_ -Mito to raise a human. Maybe he didn’t think _I_ was ready for my aether. He never told me. Killua, you should understand. Don’t your family keep secrets, even ones that are about _you_?”

The jinni turns Gon’s eyes back to Killua, and they aren’t cold or alien in Gon’s face, despite the cold and alien presence that Killua feels behind them. His headache spikes. "Say what you want," he tells the jinni, "I know you're a jinni. You're not — you're not the Gon I met at school." The jinni is already shaking his head, but Killua powers on. "I want to find out what happened to him."

There's a long pause. The sunlight in the hotel room is beginning to turn orange, and Killua notices that the air conditioner is making a quiet clicking noise in the corner. The jinni still isn't frowning, but he looks serious.

"I… can't leave," the jinni says eventually. "I'm bound to you, Killua. I also owe you, don't I? You set free my aether. My jinn side.” Gon’s expression is uncharacteristically solemn. Then again, it’s not really Gon’s. “Is this your wish?"

Killua breathes in and out and tries to gauge the jinni on the other bed. Jinni are dangerous, tricksters; he knows to watch his words. Finally, he says, "You can do that? Bring him back?"

"No." The room is very still, except for the crackle of magic that only Killua can feel. "I can't do fairybook kind of wishes. I'm not all-powerful." His lips twitch upwards, and he settles back on his hands. As the jinni relaxes, the tension in the room seems to slip — the stillness breaks.

Killua breathes out. "I want Gon back. Human Gon. And I want you to help me find him."

"Is that your wish?" The jinni asks again, wiggling his toes on the bedspread.

"What, that's it? I just ask?"

"Yep."

Killua hesitates. "I don't believe you're Gon,” he says again, cautiously. “Don’t you mind? Do you admit you're not?"

The jinni sighs, and for the first time he seems really troubled. "Of course I mind. You think I'm lying. I don't know how to convince you, but," says the jinni, "You’re here, Killua. I don't mind that I get to stick with you. And,” he adds, “I’ve got ambitions too. You’re gonna trust me again, Killua. I promise.”

Killua says nothing. He has nothing to say to that.

"So, Killua? That's your wish?"

He steels himself, takes a moment to consider the wording, and says slowly, "I wish for you to help me find normal, human Gon. I just — I need to know he's fine." Killua runs the words back in his head, but he can't tell if there are any loopholes. Spirit swill exploit any weakness, pervert any wish to ruin its outcome. But Killua has no choice — this must be done. 

The jinni sighs again. "If you say so."

Killua half expects to feel something — a tremor of magic, like he feels around users or spirits. Some kind of shift or frisson. But nothing happens.

The jinni turns to lie down across his comforter, but Killua isn’t finished.

“What kind of wish was that?”

The jinni opens Gon’s eyes and rises on one elbow to look at Killua. “Huh?”

“It didn’t work. I didn’t feel anything.”

The jinni turns more fully to face him, confused. “Did you expect to? You shouldn’t. It’s... it's debt magic. It’s more serious than the regular kind, I guess it’s a different frequency.”

Killua mulls this over. He looks outside, where the tall glass buildings are beginning to glow orange under the setting sun. “Is it still a real wish?” Without turning back, he hears the jinni shuffling around some more on his bed.

“Yeah, of course. Just because you don’t feel it, that doesn’t mean it’s not there.”

That sounds a bit too pointed. Killua keeps his eyes fixed on the bright sky reflected on the glass skyscrapers and doesn’t answer.

* * *

“Remember what Wing said,” Killua tells the jinni as they walk towards the Burj Khalifa. “Don’t get sloppy. Be careful.”

“Yeah, Killua,” the jinni beams, “I will!”

He doesn’t ask why Killua cares. In fact, he doesn’t act in any way out of the ordinary — he still wears Gon’s face, and uses his voice, and borrows his personality. It’s somehow strange, after last night — Killua had sort of expected the jinni to drop the act.

“You will what?” Killua presses.

The jinni releases an exaggerated sigh. “I won’t underestimate my opponents. I won’t overestimate myself, either.”

“You won’t?”

“I know it can get dangerous, and I’ve gotta be careful, and I will.”

His tone is resolute. Killua nods, satisfied.

The streets are moderately busy with early morning traffic, and the heat of the day is already settling in. The Zoldyck manor is always a few degrees cooler than most people would find comfortable, between the altitude and the heavy old stone walls that leech warmth from the air. Killua has pushed up the sleeves of his turtleneck, but the insides of his elbows feel sticky under the bunched fabric and he wrinkles his nose.

“Killua, I told you it’d be warm!” Gon chides, as Killua pushes again at his sleeves. It’s no use, and after a moment he gives up.

“Not for long, it’s cold as balls inside the arena. You’re gonna be the one dressed badly there.”

The jinni laughs. “You think?” He lifts his elbows in front of him to glance at his bare arms, tan and well-built. Killua’s eyes linger on the smooth skin a bit longer than he’d like to admit. “I’m gonna be moving a lot, though. The air conditioning doesn’t bother me.”

Killua shrugs and blinks away from Gon's dark, sculpted arms. This is not the time. “Whatever. Just don’t keep fidgeting through lunch again, you’d better sit still today. I don’t care if you get cold.”

The jinni only laughs again. They both know he won’t complain about the temperature, and he probably won’t sit still, either. Gon’s not capable of sitting still, probably — but, Killua reminds himself, this isn’t Gon. He doesn’t really know the jinni at all.

Yesterday they’d arrived later at the Burj Khalifa, after the morning rush hour and before lunch time, so today when they reach the base of it there’s a much larger flow of people. Some wear suits, carrying expensive briefcases or elegant binders. Some come in long dresses, others in jeans. More than a few are wearing heavy robes — Killua feels even hotter just looking at them. Everyone seems to be on their way to something different, but they’re all headed for the same soaring tower.

All but a few people, Killua realizes, as the flow around them falters.

There are many entrances to the tower — it’s enormous. But there’s a girl-shaped spirit wearing a yellow headscarf and a placid expression sitting cross-legged in the opening of the nearest rotating glass door, and she’s holding up the traffic. Next to Killua, the jinni slows down too, curious.

Towering over the spirit girl, a loud man is demanding to know why the door is blocked. Killua tries to rejoin the rest of the traffic as they walk by, giving the scene a safe berth. But the jinni hesitates, watching as the protester — because that’s what she seems to be — angles a cardboard sign to show the man looming above her.

**_My Body, My Choice_ **

“This is not acceptable,” he bursts, jabbing a thick finger at her and ignoring the sign. The protester just looks up at him patiently. “Where– you think you can just block these doors? It’s a business day.” He looks around and demands, “Where’s this building’s security?”

“Gon,” Killua says lowly, trying to nudge him forward. The protester seeths with magic, and her easy sitting posture is somehow more unsettling than the keyed-up energy of the spirits in the arena. “We should –”

Still with absolute calm, the protester turns the sign around.

**_Magical Contracting is Slavery_ **

The man laughs loudly. “Can you believe this? Huh?” He asks, glancing around as if expecting camaraderie.

Killua looks pointedly away and pushes again at the jinni, who is still craning to watch the spectacle.

“Killua, wait. I wanna see…”

“Magical contracting,” the man scoffs. “I should have you meet my demons. They’re all _perfectly happy_ to do my work. They love it. You’re boycotting the arena, right,” he snorts. “This, Sama Alsaha? Is a great institution. It’s healthy, see, for demons to fight. You can’t change that violent nature, right? You free them, they kill you. Right away, no hesitation — everybody knows that. All you can do–”

The jinni turns away so abruptly that Killua nearly falls behind as he makes for the next door.

He doesn’t say anything as Killua hurries to keep up. But, Killua thinks, Gon doesn’t really look upset — just thoughtful. He keeps an eye on the jinni as they take the elevator up to Sama Alsaha, but the jinni doesn’t say anything at all until he’s after gotten changed, and by then it’s nearly time for his first round of fighting.

“Watch yourself, don’t be distracted in there,” Killua reminds him as the jinni takes a swig of water.

“I will, Killua. And I won’t be.”

He doesn’t _look_ distracted, at least — his expression, as he enters the ring, is his usual one of intense focus. If anything, Killua’s the one who’s been distracted by the incident. But the protester won’t be allowed to linger, he knows. So, confident in that knowledge, he’s able to mostly put it out of his head.

* * *

“Guess Wing was wrong,” the jinni says, stretching his arms skyward as they walk towards the glass exit doors, “about how soon I’d have to fight real challengers.”

Killua grunts. “You’d better still–”

“I’ll keep my guard up,” the jinni promises a little too quickly, and Killua sighs. “It’ll only get harder, anyways. Mm, but… I moved up levels a bit slower today, eh?”

“Of course. It’s your second day, they’ve got a better guess of where you’re at.”

It’s been a much longer day than yesterday, sunlight already slanting through the sweeping glass walls. The ground floor is nearly empty now. Despite that, Killua doesn’t feel worse than he had yesterday — no better, but not worse.

“I know I’ve gotta be careful,” Gon says, “but I kinda hope I get to fight someone who’s a bit more — oh,” the jinni breaks off suddenly as they come into view of the doors. Killua slows to a halt as well.

Once again, there’s only one. It’s a different protestor this time, and he’s not a spirit, though Killua can tell he’s been around them — magic clings to him like staticky hair. But apart from that, the man sitting cross-legged in one of the lobbies of the Burj Khalifa doesn’t immediately look like he’s even part of the same group.

He’s not really blocking the door, for one thing, and for another, he doesn’t have a sign. But he openly watches the two of them as they walk forward, Killua trying to guide them towards the doors on the far end of the hall. The jinni is either oblivious or deliberately ignoring him, powering directly towards the centre doors.

Fading sunlight casts the hall in a dusty orange light, which glances off the warm grey marble and reflects on the glossy black floors. They’re nearly past the protester — right beside him, actually, and Killua is hoping that they’re in the clear — when he finally speaks up.

“How old are you both?”

Killua freezes, and Gon — of _course_ — turns to answer the man. “Sixteen. Are you with the spirit who was here this morning?”

Looking up from the floor, he studies them for a moment.

“This is a sit-in. We’re protesting the non-consensual contracts condoned and promoted by Sama Alsaha.” His eyes slide to Killua, and he sighs. It comes out a heavy sound, like it’s been forced out, and Killua feels a little attacked. In one smooth motion, the man unfolds himself from the ground and stands before them, considering. He’s narrow and very tall, towering over them now that he’s standing, and his expression is one of vague disappointment.

“Sixteen,” he echoes.

Killua and the jinni share a glance, and at least now Gon looks a little uncertain. If they wind up having to make awkward conversation with some crazy radical, it’ll be entirely his fault.

The man sighs. “I won’t pretend I understand why you’re here, and I don’t say this because I think you’re weak or incapable, but sixteen’s too young for this.” He looks at Killua as he speaks, but not in the way that most users do, as if the jinni isn’t there. “Go — go to school, or if that’s not for you, that’s fine. But don’t go contracting spirits. What are your names?”

“Why not?” Killua asks instead of answering; a challenge. “What’s your pitch?”

Raising his eyebrows, the man gives Killua another appraising look. “My pitch? Alright.

"Contracting spirits is non-voluntary enslavement. While, yes, some spirits agree to be bound to a witch, or sorcerer, or other magic user, the spirit never really has the option of saying no, does it?”

After a beat, Killua tries to consider this. He’s heard of anti-contract movements, of course, but he’s never encountered an agitator before. He’s never met anyone who was openly sympathetic to spirits.

“And what if they’re dangerous?” He’s been taught well enough to be wary of jinn, and he already knows his answer. A crackpot activist won’t say anything that might convince him. Still, Killua feels oddly like he’s on the defensive. “They have to be bound. And what should existing users do? Spirits will kill their users if they have half a chance.”

The vague expression of disappointment seems to deepen. Killua feels a twinge of guilt before he can think better of it — he hasn’t even properly bound his jinni, he’s done nothing more than the perfunctory non-harm agreement and the wish, which he is owed. And jinn _are_ dangerous.

“Sometimes people need to be imprisoned, too,” the man concedes, “And — I won’t go into my thoughts on prisons. But we’re usually above enslavement. International law prohibits it — and most people will agree that it’s unacceptable to take humans as slaves, so why spirits? Do you really think yours would turn on you?”

Killua wants to open his mouth and press the point, because — well, _yeah —_  but then the jinni interrupts. “It’s okay, though,” he laughs, “we’re not really in a proper contract.”

“Maybe not so loud,” Killua mutters, though the lobby is empty.

“Ah — sorry, Killua.”

The man raises his eyebrows and looks between them. “Killua, that’s your name? And you are–?”

“Gon! I’m, well, a free jinni — ah, half-jinn.” Killua resists the urge to elbow Gon for speaking so freely. Kite knows that the jinni is unbound; there's nothing illegal about  _hanging out_ with jinn.

“Half–?” The man stares at the jinni for a moment, and when he turns to Killua, his eyes catch on the seal hanging around his neck. He squints at it.

“Gon. You–” His eyes make their way back to the jinni’s face. “Are you Ging’s son?”

In the evening light, the empty hall is utterly still. Killua stops breathing.

The jinni reacts first, surprise fading into delight. “Oh! I — yes — do you know him?”

“My name is Kite,” he says, rather than answering directly, still glancing at Killua’s necklace. “You broke Ging’s seal.” He looks up at Gon. The jinni. _Gon._ “That’s impressive.”

“Ah— no, actually,” Gon grins, “Killua was the one who broke it! Eh, Killua?”

_Ging’s seal,_ Killua thinks, perturbed. What could an anti-contract radical know about the gold box? 

Kite pins him with an appraising look, as though Killua has suddenly become more interesting. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but the jinni cuts him off. “You know Ging?”

Blinking, Kite turns his thoughtful expression to the Gon.

“Ah — yes. He’s… a colleague.”

“How do you know Ging?” The jinni bursts. “Have you heard from him recently — do you know how he is?” Gon’s hands fist in excitement, but then he falters and, finally, glances at Killua. He doesn’t say anything, but the light in his eyes dims somewhat, as though seeing Killua has served as some kind of reminder.

Killua stares back at him. Gon’s eyes are clear with the evening light shining through them, and his sepia skin is glowing. It makes Killua’s breath catch in his throat; that, and the panic.  _Why does Kite recognise a half-jinni as Ging’s son?_ Gon is human. Gon was always human. Gon is not a creature of the occult.

“Ging and I ha– ah,” Kite glances past them, and Killua hears the sound of brisk footsteps before he turns around. “Shit,” Kite says, much more quietly.

Two members of building security are advancing across the marble floors, eyes fixed on Kite. Killua shouldn’t be surprised, but he’d forgotten, for an instant, that they were talking to a protester. However peaceful the sit-in might have been today, it’s in no way legal to stage a protest here, Killua’s pretty sure. The expressions on the faces of the approaching security guards seem to confirm it.

Staring at them, Killua feels the tension begin to seep out of him.  _Never trust the occult._ That's right — and Kite may be human; he may even be a friend of Ging's, but he sympathisez with spirits. Gon is not ~~possessed~~ ~~occult~~ a jinni. 

Kite sighs again. “Damn.” He reaches for the messenger bag at his feet, but addresses Gon and Killua as he says, “Excuse me. I’ve got to talk to security.”

That’s right. Kite may have recognised the jinni, but that means nothing. Killua’s chest loosens again. Whatever this pro-spirit radical thinks of the jinni, it doesn’t change anything. Killua knows his senses, and he trusts them: Gon was human. Gon _is_ human. He had no trace of magic on him before, and he hasn’t suddenly _become_ magic now.

Kite slings the bag over his shoulder and begins rummaging through it, stepping away even as the jinni tries to keep his attention. Killua rests a hand on the jinni’s shoulder.

“Gon, don’t bother. He’s probably about to get, like, arrested. Fined, or something.” He feels the tremor of magic at his fingertips, but the jinni is bound to fulfill his wish. Even through the jinni’s shirt, the iron rings seem to buzz faintly.

Killua feels a bit bad, and it’s not as if he’s not immensely curious as well. But the jinni doesn’t try to go after Kite, though he looks genuinely crushed, as if he really does crave some news about his real, biological father. And Killua shouldn’t feel bad, because _this isn’t Gon_ , he reminds himself sternly.

Halfway across the room Kite pauses, hands still in his bag, and half-turns back to look at them.

“I’ll be here tomorrow,” he calls, disregarding the stormy looks of security. “In the evening again, if you want to talk.”

That’s when security reaches him, claiming his attention. Killua stares for a moment, and this time it’s the jinni who turns away first. Killua follows silently as they make their way out of the Burj Khalifa, each caught up in their own thoughts.

Despite himself, Killua can’t stop wondering what Kite meant by _Ging’s seal._ Had it belonged to Ging? Had he made the seal itself, or was it some kind of heirloom?

When Killua had found the seal on the floor of the science room, he’d recognized it; he wouldn’t have picked it up otherwise. He hadn’t really thought about it, not when he saw it on the floor, and not earlier when he’d seen it on Gon. It had hardly registered.

He hadn’t thought much of it until he’d bent to pick it up from the floor, to hand back to Gon — or maybe just to ask Gon if it was his at all. And then his reaching fingers had brushed the metal, and he remembers it had been surprisingly warm, and he’d felt the zing of magic in his fingertips and that was when he’d known that he had made a mistake.

“We’re coming back, right, Killua?” The jinni asks. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes bright with excitement. They’re still standing in the bright hall, alone now.

“Was that him?” Killua asks, just to be sure, as they turn and make for the doors. “Ging’s colleague?”

“No. But–”

“Are you sure?” Killua asks, thrown by the bluntness of the jinni’s answer. He’s a protestor, not an archaeologist, but, “He knows Ging.”

“He’s human.”

“He– _what_?”

Turning back, the jinni frowns. “Wasn’t he human? Killua, you’d know better than me, but I think… we should come back, anyways, though! Eh? He definitely knows a lot about Ging.”

“And the other guy. The one you mentioned before, he’s not human?” Killua’s tone rises, indignant. “You didn’t mention _that_?”

He falls back into step with the jinni, though.

“Well,” the jinni shrugs. “He _works_ with spirits, Killua. I guess I thought you knew.”

Ging works with spirits too, Killua thinks. “So does Kite, stupid.”

“So do you.”

Killua frowns. “Yeah. See?”

Afternoon heat washes over them as they push through the glass doors. It’s actually refreshing, after the chilled climate of the Burj Khalifa, and Killua relaxes as it sinks into his muscles.

The jinni laughs, loud and bright under the slanting sun. “Okay, Killua. You’re right.”

“Hah!” Killua skips ahead and twists back to stick out his tongue. “Told you.” Gon crinkles his eyes and doesn’t answer, just smiles stupidly back until Killua stutters to a halt. “What are you looking at?”

Gon’s eyes skip away for a second.

“Nothing. Just,” he ducks his head, “you look… really happy, Killua.”

Huh. Well, Killua _is_ happy — but he huffs, and tries to chase the smile off his own face.

“I’m just glad we’ve got a lead.” That’s not all of it, though. It feels familiar, he realizes, to be walking home with Gon after a long day. Like they’ve just finished studying, or something, and are returning to the dorm.

Plus, he feels more settled with the reminder that the jinni has a purpose. “Maybe we’ll be able to quit this arena before we catch any bad attention,” he says, unable to keep the lightness out of his tone.

“I thought you said we should be careful!”

“ _You still should_ ,” he scoffs. “But, if we’re lucky…”

The jinni smiles at Killua with his tongue between his teeth. “You thought we should walk past that guy.”

Killua makes an indignant face and shoves Gon’s shoulder. “He was just some protester,” Killua insists. "It's smart to keep an eye on him anyways, since he knows your name."

The jinni rolls his eyes. “He won't use it, that's what he's here protesting. Don’t be so quick to judge.” he chides, but he hasn’t lost the smile and for once, Killua can’t bring himself to ruin the good atmosphere. “You’d better be polite to him tomorrow, Killua.”

“Yeah,” Killua waves him off. “I can be polite. I need him to like me.”

So it’s justified, Killua tells himself, that he doesn’t cool off his attitude with the jinni. He has to impress the protester tomorrow. After that, he can treat the jinni with the usual wariness. For now, maybe it’s okay to relax.

* * *

On their third day at the arena, Zushi’s warning proves true. It’s early afternoon, and Gon bounces on his toes at his end of the ring, eager to get back to fighting.

The daemon-type spirit  in the ring (not to be confused with _demon_ , the generalization)must be something strange, a kind of spirit Killua’s never encountered before, because it’s got an unusual signature. The low-level daemon that Killua’s jinni is meant to be fighting ( _an ala_ , Killua thinks, concentrating, _or maybe a leshy_ ) is accompanied by what feel like other entities, circling the ring.

The first few blows come from the daemon; it’s only when the jinni proves able to block them with ease that the daemon skips back — barely missing Gon’s swing, it’d be an easy win for him in a normal fight. But the next step that Gon takes to follow them is intercepted.

Killua tries to track the movement of the daemon’s other parts, but it’s fast, and somehow fuzzy. It’s like trying to watch something under water.

Gon takes a hit. The invisible limb that got him darts back quickly, and Gon wastes no time in steadying himself, but his hand goes to his ribs — where he’s been hit — and his wince is obvious as he turns his head in bewilderment. The next hit comes from behind, and Gon stumbles forward.

He spins quickly, casting around for an invisible assailant.

The arena is unusually quiet, people in the stands holding their breath. Killua knows that there’s a lot of money riding on Gon. There are probably a lot of people beginning to feel antsy.

On the third blow — this one to his shoulder — the jinni lunges after the invisible limb, spinning on his heel and reaching after it, but the daemon is fast, faster than the jinni, and it hovers out of reach. The jinni comes to a halt and stands in the ring, taking in his surroundings, and when the next attack comes — Gon _shifts._

It’s common knowledge that jinn are shape-shifters. Still, Killua's never seen the jinni out of his human form — out of _Gon’s body_ , Killua reminds himself.

Killua sees the attack coming, or feels it, _senses_ the weird invisible limb as it aims for the soft spot of Gon’s side under his ribs. But the jinni must feel it too, because in the instant that the daemon should have landed a hit, Gon’s body is there no more. In it’s place, a wiry cat twists sideways and flips onto its feet.

Then as he glances around, the jinni seems to perceive something; he leaps away again, and Killua realizes that the cat’s vision had caught one of the daemon’s invisible limbs. _Smart choice_ , he realizes as he watches the fight go on. Cats, as everyone knows, can see spirits — even invisible ones.

The jinni doesn’t have his fists in this form, but his claws are pretty effective. Between them and the second sight granted by his cat eyes, the jinni begins to tip the balance of the fight.

As the mood across the crowd shifts, Killua glances above the ring, and now he notices the private viewing box opposite his own. In the midst of the rising fervor of the crowd, this section watches calmy.

There are a few faces in that small section that look decidedly pleased, though.

Most interesting of all, Killua feels… something odd, in their direction. Not a magical presence, which is the weird thing, and not a spirit — more like an _absence_. Like a black hole. Killua’s never been able to sense anything but magic; non-magic things don’t have a presence. But there’s something over there which feels like — the opposite of magic.

Killua keeps glancing at them watching the match, curiosity piqued. He thinks back to what Zushi told them over lunch the other day, and guesses that they’ve placed a fair amount of money on his jinni.

In the ring, the jinni’s found his rhythm, and he looks excited at having finally met a decent match. The daemon is holding its own, but barely.

At the centre of the booth, amidst a cluster of people Killua pegs as security, there sits a girl not too much older Killua. Fiddling with her phone, she looks absolutely disinterested in the match. She’s at the centre of the black void in Killua’s senses.

Killua steps out of his own box.

The stands are packed, and the crowd is only getting more dense as the tension rises, so it’s a struggle to push through. Killua shoulders past one user with a particularly strong signature, and winces at the shock. He grits his teeth and tries to ignore it, but the crowd is full of spirits and users alike who are buzzing with magic.

Killua pauses in a relatively clear spot to scan the crowd ahead of him, trying to guess at which people are just fans, unlikely to have any charge on them at all. He’s not _looking_ so much as feeling around for magic users, focused on the energy around him. So he notices the signature as soon as he casts out, though it hangs dimly at the edge of his vision.

Faint as it is, Killua’s body freezes and his mind whirrs. He can’t place what kind of spirit they are, exactly, but their charge is intensely familiar.

Killua’s felt this charge his whole life — only this one is much, much stronger than the charge that lingers on Illumi.

His lungs feel tight. The crowd around him, throbbing with magic and packed with users and spirits alike, suddenly feels much too close. Pressing in on all sides, it’s hard to back away.

Killua turns and elbows his way back through the crowd, the way he’s come (wincing wherever he bumps into a spirit, jolts of magic rattling him), desperate for a breath of air.

Some free space, he thinks, less packed with magicians — he’ll be fine. He’s been on edge for days, constantly surrounded by users and spirits, and some fresh air is all he needs.

Unless Illumi is here, too.

_Shit_.

But Killua doesn’t know why he’d be here — unless he’s found them. Maybe he’s tracked Killua down, and he’s here to bring him home.

That still doesn’t explain why Illumi has been in close contact with a spirit, much less a spirit with such a strong charge. _It doesn’t make sense_ , and here in the crowd, surrounded by the suffocating pressure of magic, Killua can’t puzzle it out.

Killua makes it to the barrier at the edge of the crowd, and he pauses there to breathe for a second. Nearly back at the box; he can see it a few feet down the rail and the entrance can’t be too far back. His heartbeat won’t slow down. He’s distantly aware of the annoyed voices behind his rough escape, but it’s just white noise, lost under the jumble of panicked thoughts.

A hand snags his shoulder.

It’s a large hand — broad, not Illumi’s hand, Killua notes even as he swings around with his fists already raised. It’s instinct. There’s a man falling backwards into the mass of people before Killua can process. The crowd parts like a wave around him.

The loss of control stings, and Killua curses himself for it.

The man struggles to right himself, spitting mad and towering over Killua when he stands to his full height. Killua scowls and adjusts his stance because rusty though he may be, he’s not about to lose in a scuffle to some sports fan, but then there are more hands on him and arms holding back the other man. This time Killua doesn’t try to punch anyone.

He’s pulled out of sight from the guy as the crowd shifts on a collective inhale, and Killua registers the changed mood as he leans back against the rail. While he wasn’t looking, the match has turned around again.

“ _That little slip_ ,” the voice of the caster rings out, “ _seems to have cost Gon his rhythm_.” His voice is echoey and machinic through the speakers.

Sure enough, the little cat has been replaced by a pigeon, which gives him more dimensions to move in, but it’s a slower shape. As Killua watches, the jinni shifts again, giving up still more space as he shrinks into a quick, dark thing. A bat, Killua realizes — which is smart, in that he can still sense the invisible limbs of the daemon, but he’s also given up offensive capabilities.

“ _He’s very reluctant to change shape_ ,” the commentator notes. “ _Unusual for a shape-shifting spirit, but not unusual with Gon_.”

The second voice takes over. “ _He does have a reputation_ ,” she says, as Gon — as the bat does a complicated spin. Killua frowns and tries to focus — the ring seems more crowded now to Killua’s senses, despite the size of the bat. As though the daemon is growing. “ _He’s been steadily climbing the charts all week, but this is the first time we’ve seen him shift at all._ ”

It’s almost like there’s more than one spirit in the ring. Feeling paranoid, Killua concentrates harder, trying to get a better handle on the daemon’s magic.

The first commentator picks up again. “ _I hadn’t believed the speculation that maybe he was a spirit who couldn’t — I mean, what kind of a shifter enjoys wearing one form? — Well, this one doesn’t seem to be a fan of shifting at all._ ” It’s strange, but Killua’s beginning to think the same thing.

“ _Would you look at that,_ ” the castor breaks off, just as the bat twists into a lithe fox. There’s a note of wonder in his voice that Killua can understand. Not because the transformation was impressive; the fox stumbles as it lands, clumsy and slow as if shifting forms has drained him, and he doesn’t manage to miss the next invisible blow.

Despite himself, Killua feels a twinge of worry.

That thought doesn’t last long, because his attention is immediately drawn back to Gon’s opponent. The daemon is definitely too large, now, for a regular daemon.

Killua isn’t the only one who's finally realized something wrong. The woman starts speaking again and her tone is verging on alarm. _“Is that really just one spirit, or is there a_ third _presence in the ring?For a newcomer, Gon has been catching a lot of attention. I don’t know about you, Faris, but I think this fight’s gotten dirty_.”

Now that he’s realized there’s something to look for, Killua thinks that there are probably more than just _three_ spirits in the ring. There seem to be at least three daemons, including the visible one.

Killua’s grip on the rails tightens. He’s spent the past two days reminding Gon to be careful, but _he’s_ the only one who could’ve noticed this sooner. He could’ve alerted the ref — he almost flinches as the jinni catches another blow. But the ref knows something’s off now, at least. There’s some commotion stirring in the audience as well, rising alarm as spectators realize that the game's been rigged.

In the ring the fox looks around with sharp eyes, trying to gage where the next attack will come from, but his reflexes have slowed down.

Killua tries to ignore the tightness in his chest, because this isn’t Gon, this is a jinni that looks like him, _it’s not Gon —_  but he knows that in a few minutes, when the jinni shifts back, he’ll be seeing his friend’s body wearing those injuries. He feels a little bit sick.

The referee finally blows her whistle a few times, and the daemon falls back. That’s when it becomes very clear for everyone in the crowd that there are other spirits in the ring.

Though the first daemon looks nervous itself, backing off easily at the referee’s order, the others stay at it. Maybe they’ve been instructed simply to take him out of the running. Killua clenches his fingers more tightly around the railing and he feels a strange urge to intervene in the fight himself.

The referee has stepped into the ring now, shrill whistle blowing steadily as she brandishes an iron seal before her, but it’s less effective than it could be. It must not be a very strong seal, more of a warning than an effective tool; the spirits fighting Gon seem remarkably dedicated. A few seconds later, she’s joined by a pair of people from security.

There’s no more cheering from the crowd now, just a lot of confused yelling. Killua’s head throbs with the stress and the noise and the persistent thrum of magic.

Finally, a third security guard joins the ring. Not a member of Sama Alsaha's security team — this one drops over the barrier from the private seating area which Killua noticed earlier. They step into the fray without hesitation.

No one from their section seems particularly surprised, either. In fact, when Killua glances up to check, the entire section remains borderline disinterested, even as the spirits in the arena are pulled apart and forced roughly to corporealize with iron chains and salt water.

Killua is pressed against the rail as the crowd leans forward, eager to see the spirits made visible. They’re also daemons, Killua thinks, though he can’t tell if they’re all the same kind or different ones. Only one of them is human; the other two have formed a grotesque, mutant shape, clinging to one another with far too many limbs.

The jinni curls up away from them, watching warily.

The crowd begins to disperse, at the urging of yet more members of security, but Killua doesn't move right away. He wants nothing better than to hop the rail right now, but that would be exponentially stupid, with Illumi’s spirit in the crowd.

As the crowd slowly thins out, Killua’s eyes find Illumi’s spirit, still stationed by the edge of the ring and watching intently, lingering there until security approaches him directly.

Killua watches out of the corner of his vision as Illumi’s spirit seems to stall, but at last relents without a fight. He doesn’t move until he’s certain that the spirit is gone.

By now, Gon is standing again, and Killua feels a twinge of guilt at having left him there for so long. Except, he reminds himself, this isn’t _Gon_ , even if he’s taken back Gon’s shape.

Killua studies the jinni carefully, looking for any imperfections, some kind of physical proof that he’s a copy. The tips of his hair haven’t properly corporealized yet, still smoking gently and fading in and out of focus as if through a bad lens. Otherwise, though, as far as Killua can tell, he’s a perfect copy.

As Killua approaches, he finds that the jinni is speaking to the security guard from the private section. They’re not human, Killua realizes, though they’re not spirit either.

“You should be more careful,” they’re telling the jinni as Killua comes into earshot, “there’s a lot of money on you. Pay close attention in the ring, next time.” They gingerly inspect Gon’s wrist, frowning.

The jinni spots Killua, turning to face him and tugging his own wrist in the process. He winces, but  lights up. “Ow — hey, Killua! That was some fight, eh?”

Killua raises his eyebrows and stops with his hands in his pockets, assessing the damage. Apart from the wrist and the ankle, the jinni has a few cuts and scratches, but nothing too threatening. Still.

“Stupid. We’re gonna have to taxi to the hospital.” That’s a lie, and they both know it. “Did you lose focus, or something?”

“The hospital’s expensive, I’m fine. There were more spirits than I expected, eh,” he says, sticking his tongue out. “Where’d you go? What happened? I know something did, I know you–”

“What, you can smell fear?” Killua snorts, cutting him off. “It’s nothing. I’ll tell you later.”

The security guard interrupts. “You’re not fine,” he tells the jinni. “Are you Gon’s contractor?”

“Oh-!” The jinni seems surprised, as if he’d forgotten they didn’t know each other. “He is, yeah,” the jinni answers. “This is Killua — Killua, this is Kurapika,” he gestures at the security guard. “They’re with the Nostrade family, the ones Zushi was telling us about!”

Killua pauses. So the family he’d had his eyes on —

“The Nostrade family? Neat.” he tilts his head. “You’re their security?” As he speaks, Killua tries to feel out the rest of the Nostrade party.

Unlike the majority of the crowd, they haven’t gone far — and that odd blank space is still there. He resists the urge to turn and look. It’s oddly calming, though, this spot of _nothing_ in the midst of so much magic.

“I work for them.” Kurapika is still holding Gon’s wrist gingerly, and they frown at it. “This isn’t nothing,” they repeat. “You need to get it looked at.”

Killua sighs as well and goes to put a hand on the jinni’s arm. It sparks, and he jerks his hand back as if _he’s_ the one who’s been burnt.

Awkwardly, he says, “Sit down, or something. Don’t stress your ankle.”

Kurapika looks torn, but they oblige to letting go of the jinni’s wrist so that he can settle on the floor. Finally, they speak up. “How old are you?”

The question everyone’s been asking. Killua’s resigned himself to hearing it often.

“Sixteen. We’re young.”

He meets Kurapika’s stare and waits for the lecture.

After a beat, Kurapuka sighs. “Come with me,” they say finally. Killua exchanges a glance with the jinni.

“Excuse me?”

“He needs medical attention,” Kurapika says. “I know you’re not supposed to have him contracted,” and Killua tenses but they go on, “I won’t tell anyone. It’s an open secret that users bring jinn into the ring.”

“Thank you,” Killua says, wary.

“I understand that you don’t want to go to the hospital. I can take you somewhere else. My roommate is studying to be a doctor. He’d be glad to help, I’m sure, if you want.” They extend a hand towards Gon.

Killua’s been taught to be wary of the supernatural, including users like Kurapika, but… but they’re working with the Nostrade family. They might even know who the psychic is. “For how much?”

Kurapika shakes their head. “Nothing. Free. It’s good practice, Leorio’s doing an internship. He’s not being paid by the hospital, so it’s essentially volunteer work — and he won’t mind helping you out,” they add, “especially since you’re so young.”

Gon accepts the proffered hand and stands up alright, though he still favors his right ankle. “Are you sure?”

“What about your work?” Killua asks, glancing again towards the void, though he can now sense it fading rapidly away from the ring.

“My shift is done,” Kurapika tells them. “The Nostrades will be going home now, which means my job is finished for today. If you can just wait while I wrap up — I’m sure you’ll want to wash off a bit, too.” They cast a look at Gon, who ducks his head.

“Thanks,” Gon chirps, a little embarrassed.

“We’ll meet you by the elevators,” Killua cuts in, “let’s say in fifteen?”

He doesn’t try to look at Gon as they walk to the showers, but his eyes keep sliding sideways anyways. It’s weird, he thinks, that shapeshifters need showers, can get injured like this. Gon’s back is sweaty, his shirt clinging to his now human shoulder blades. Weird, too, that Killua’s eyes can’t differentiate between a jinni and a boy.

His other senses can. Killua wrenches himself back to reality and stares obstinately at the floor in front of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An ala is a weather spirit of folklore native to around southeastern Europe; leshiye are Slavic fairy-like characters. Neither of them are really done justice here (there's only so much mythology I can fit), alas.
> 
> As you've probably noticed, I always put way too much research into the things I write. I actually don't have that much to say about this chapter, which probably means I'm forgetting something! If you have any questions about the setting, the mythology, or my worldbuilding choices, don't hesitate to ask! I can't tell you how happy I'd be to tell you more :)

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, I am so incredibly grateful to my artists for working with me! Check out their art [here](http://witches-nighttime.tumblr.com/post/161347814277/im-late-to-the-party-my-hxh-bb-entry-for) and [here](https://peppermint-soup.tumblr.com/post/161417297813/here-is-my-artwork-for-teasdays-fic-in-light-of), and I encourage you to reblog it if you like it! Sharing is caring, and all :)


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